


Three Hundred Twenty-Nine Days Apart

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [29]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: 1780, Historical, M/M, Original Character(s), Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 77,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Alexander Hamilton remains in the north, meets Elizabeth Schuyler; John Laurens travels south, fights on the front lines. Hamilton and Laurens spend almost a year apart and things change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Day 1**  
John Laurens sits in the desk of his rented rooms in Philadelphia after a long day in discussions with Congress. They spoke of General Wayne’s needs for intelligence on the British in New York, the lack of all but one of Count de Grasses’ ships and the routing of reinforcements. Laurens feels the weight of the war in the south returning to his shoulders like a physical burden, no longer hiding in the bliss of loving arms and familiar lips. 

Now he writes to Hamilton – Alexander, my Alexander – of all the busy happenings of that day. It seems far longer than a day he has been away and he wishes to write of care and affection more so. He wants to write that he wishes so soon to have Hamilton back at his side.

Instead, Laurens writes of the war, of politics and ends his letter cordially, properly to Hamilton and the family, _may you enjoy all the pleasure moral and physical which you promise yourself in winter quarters; and be as happy as you deserve._

 **Day 22**  
Alexander Hamilton raps his knuckles against the frame of General Washington’s inner office door. General Washington looks up from what appears to be a recent dispatch, Harrison speaking to a courier at the exterior rear door. 

When they first came to the Ford Mansion the door had been a window, but it was expanded to allow for a more direct entrance to General Washington’s office. A cabin was built as an adjoining chamber for daily visitors and as a waiting room for business relating to His Excellency. The whole purpose being to ease disturbance on the rest of the house.

“Yes, Hamilton?” General Washington asks.

“I wonder, Your Excellency, if I might spare you for a moment to have a private word?”

Harrison glances in Hamilton’s direction. He turns to the courier, saying something so the man exits back into the antechamber then Harrison closes the door. Harrison looks to General Washington.

“I am able to spare some minutes.” General Washington nods at Harrison. Harrison bows quickly and walks to the exit, Hamilton stepping into the office to make way.

The door closes behind Harrison and General Washington puts down his quill, turning to the side toward Hamilton away from the desk. “And what might your cause be?”

Hamilton clasps his hands behind his back and pulls himself up tall. “I wish to request leave to join the southern campaign.”

General Washington’s lips shift just slightly. “You have asked this before.”

“I have and I am knowledgeable of your refusal at the time. However, much time has passed since my first request and the situation southward has not improved.”

“I am aware of this, Lieutenant Colonel. I have ordered a regiment of reinforcements, which you know.”

Hamilton nods. “Yes, sir, I do not dispute your knowledge or actions. I say that I could be of use, better use, with a command in the southern fight. Lieutenant Colonel Laurens informed us of the dire situation of Charles Town, of the failure of the siege in Savannah. Additional leadership is needed and I do not speak to injure the reputation or abilities of our Generals and officers in the south; I say that I would be a worthy addition to their ranks and have such knowledge, knowledge of your mind, sir, to bolster the southern fight.”

“You are but one man, Hamilton.”

“One man can accomplish much if of a mind and abilities, look to yourself, Your Excellency.”

General Washington’s expression shifts into something unreadable – angry or pleased, or perhaps it is both. “You need not stoop to flattery to gain your way.”

Hamilton clenches his teeth. “I do no ‘stoop,’ General. I state facts. Colonel Laurens is of your office, and as well as he fights and petitions, he would be better to not be alone in this. If he is a representative of yourself in the south, I can be doubly so. You know my nature and my abilities. I may point to my work in securing reinforcements to Valley Forge from General Gates less than two years past, despite his resistance and political maneuvering against you.”

“I do not doubt your abilities or skill, Colonel. That is why your presence is necessary in my office.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I am not your only aide, sir.”

“No, you are not.” General Washington stands from his desk, his height making Hamilton feel the need to straighten even more. “But my office does not run upon the back of one man, which you well know, nor can it do so well enough even with the men available to me now.”

“I understand, sir, but with winter quarters here and the war active in the south –”

“You imply that our work here becomes less with winter quarters in terms of quantity and importance?”

“I do not, Your Excellency.”

General Washington puts his hand on the back of his chair, less a support and perhaps more as a point. “And yet you do. You think yourself more needed on the field than this office, you think the work of paper less than that of the sword, is that so?”

Hamilton bristles under such censure but controls his voice. “I think we cannot afford to lose the south and I think myself able to help win it.”

General Washington watches Hamilton for a moment in silence. Then he drops his hand from the back of his chair once more. “I cannot afford the loss of you in this office.”

“With the addition of your nephew –”

“George is not an aide-de-camp. His contributions are temporary and he only a volunteer.”

“He could –”

“This is not his path.”

“And yet it is mine?” Hamilton finally snaps, unable to control his anger quite enough. “Yet you see fit to bind me here?”

“I am your Commander,” His Excellency says in a stern tone. “Where I see you fit to be of the most use is your order to comply with.”

Hamilton stares at the General. His hands fist so tightly together he is certain of the marks which shall appear in his skin from his fingernails. General Washington stares back at him, the face of The General Hamilton as seen many times before. 

Then General Washington breathes in slowly and his expression eases. “I am, however, not insensible to the desires and requests of my officers. Many men are able to command on the field, to fight with their soldiers or strategize attack. Less so are able to handle the pressures and work of this office, to understand the mechanics of the entire war in lieu of a single battle, to write with quality and mind, to advise me for the sake of our whole army. You are the latter of these.”

Hamilton swallows once, pleasing attentions to his vanity not without affect. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“Few are offered the honor of serving as my aide-de-camp and even less beyond that have remained here for so long.”

“So long as Tilghman,” Hamilton says mildly.

General Washington chuckles once, Hamilton smiling with him.

Hamilton however, cannot give in quite yet. “I understand the honor of such favor and position, and your words do me much credit and pleasure, yet I still believe my best use would be southward. If, as you say, my abilities are so, would not the southern campaign and its Generals need one with a mind to the whole of the war and the strategies used throughout, directly from you, to win us victories and retain our land and cities?”

“And I have given our southern campaign this in Colonel Laurens but you are more than I am able to sacrifice.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I am not the only man educated and able to write with a clever pen.”

“But you are one of the best in this army.” Hamilton stares at the General’s forthright words. “You, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, may even be the man of the most intelligence and wit in my office. I have no doubt your abilities would be well used in Charles Town but they are better used here. They are of the utmost use to me.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I should be where the fight is.” He should be where Laurens is.

“The fight is everywhere in our colonies,” General Washington retorts. “And I am the head of this. No, Lieutenant Colonel, you must remain here, regardless of what desire you may have for personal advancement or glory.”

Hamilton’s jaw clenches again. “I did not say so to this end.”

“You did not,” His Excellency affirms. “And I cannot speak to the extent of your mind but my decision is made and your duty to this office. You are my aide-de-camp and you shall remain so now.”

Hamilton presses his fingertips together, his arms stiff from how he holds them tight against his body, wrists at odd angles now behind his back. He curls his one hand around the other as if it should be a sword, as if he could swing it round and sound a call to the men under his orders, to block a blow from an enemy striking for Laurens riding beside him. But his fingers only touch his own skin and the hand which he grasps fists tight with no room for a sword handle. The clench of his hands leave room for only pen and paper.

Hamilton nods jerkily. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

General Washington nods back then steps around to the side of his chair to sit once more. He says quietly, “Dismissed,” as he returns to the papers on his desk.

Hamilton turns about, exits the office and closes the door behind him. He stares at the empty hallway, the sound of Harrison and McHenry’s voices in the aide-de-camp office nearer the front of the mansion. He hears the sound of horses outside, voices as likely another courier or soldier arrives and makes for the rear entrance. He is just able to see snow outside the front windows of the house on their lawn here in Morristown.

“Laurens…” Hamilton whispers to himself.

His expression falls slowly, his lips turned down and his brow heavy. He feels a deep scowl on his features, something ugly and angry and disappointed. He breathes in and out several times, arguments swirling in his head, points he could make and rebukes which would be returned. He pinches his lips tight, shuts his eyes then shakes his head hard.

“As it is then.” He opens his eyes. “Duty.” Then he turns and marches back to the aide office.

When Hamilton later writes Laurens he wants to remain pragmatic, write only of Laurens’ support for better appointments for Hamilton in Congress; he wants to remain hopeful. Instead he writes,

_I have strongly sollicited leave to go to the Southward. It could not be refused; but arguments have been used to dissuade me from it, which however little weight they may have had in my judgment gave law to my feelings. I am chagrined and unhappy but I submit. In short Laurens I am disgusted with every thing in this world but yourself and very few more honest fellows and I have no other wish than as soon as possible to make a brilliant exit. ’Tis a weakness; but I feel I am not fit for this terrestreal Country._

Any he hope he would write of lies in a wreck on the floor before General Washington’s door.

 **Day 31**  
A month’s delay in Philadelphia and his ride southward, Laurens finally arrives in his home of Charles Town. He takes the ferry over Cowper River and lands at Gadson’s wharf. The dock is located further from the peninsula of Charles Town and is mostly congested with soldiers. Many appear weary and worn from Laurens’ estimation; in fairness, much of their army carry that same look about them.

Laurens commandeers a horse from an assistant quarter master at the wharf then makes his way past the port battlements, toward army headquarters of the city. The headquarters are just beyond the outer edges of the city and within the defensive walls, putting themselves in between the expected British attack by land and the city. 

Once Laurens arrives at headquarters and sees his horse taken care of, Laurens searches the main building until he finds General Moultrie.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Moultrie says upon seeing him. “Returned to us from the north and I hope not empty handed?”

“General Washington has promised the entire Virginia line to march here as reinforcements.”

Moultrie nods once as he shifts around his table of maps, his aide-de-camp handing him a letter. “Good. Glad to see some sense in the man.”

“Did you think he would refused?”

Moultrie huffs as he cracks open the letter. “I think the north thinks themselves overly important in this war because they have Philadelphia and New York. But it is the south which may decide this war now.”

“He knows this, sir.”

Moultrie huffs again, folding the letter back up. “Oh yes, he knows such because Savannah is beyond our reach and Charles Town on the precipice!”

Laurens censures himself and does not reply. Moultrie leans over his table, circling something on the letter he got with a heavy press of his quill before handing it back to his aide. 

He looks at Laurens again. “And yourself returned? We thought possibly to lose you once more to His Excellency’s office from whence you came.”

Laurens shakes his head once. “I would prefer to fight for my own city.”

“Good.” Moultire gestures for Laurens to step to the map. He points at the coastline between Savannah and Charles Town. “As you may not have heard since you left General Washington, Clinton and Cornwallis have sailed from New York.”

Laurens’ eyes widen. “South?”

“As far as we may estimate. I can expect no other alternative. We do not know when exactly they should land nor how near. We are hoping for winter storms to keep them away.”

“But they no doubt make for us here.”

“Yes.”

Laurens’ taps the map. “They must intend to land in Savannah as they control that city.” He drags his finger over the topography. “And then march north to us.”

Moultire smiles at Laurens. “Just so. Do you have any estimation of how soon the Virginia line may march to us?”

Laurens shakes his head. “I have none.”

Moultire makes a displeased noise and walks toward the office door, Laurens marching after him. “Then we had better hope for their haste and Clinton’s delay. Come, we must report you to General Lincoln, he will have more.”

After reports and orders with the Generals of headquarters, Laurens makes his way to Ansonborough and his father’s house. Henry Laurens’ family seat of Mepkin lies far outside town along the Cooper River. However, like many men of wealth and status, he also owns a house within Charles Town.

H. Laurens looks up when Laurens enters the rear parlor, gloves in hand. H. Laurens smiles wide and stands from his chair. “Ah, John, returned to ensure our city’s safety once more?”

Laurens smiles back and shakes his father’s hand, immensely pleased to see him. The man is at times stern and strict, but all good fathers should be so and Laurens knows the truth of his father’s affection and care.

“And I am glad to be here with you, father.”

“I feared General Washington would convince you to stay in his office; it may have been my wish at times but with our own Charles Town in jeopardy…”

“No,” Laurens replies, thinking of other words said to him, of kisses enticing and distant now. “No, I am more needed here despite the entreats to keep me there.”

 **Day 46**  
“An assembly.”

Hamilton looks up as Tench Tilghman sits down on Hamilton’s right in the aide-de-camp office, placing a piece of paper on top of the requisition order Hamilton works on.

“Surely such could cure your malaise,” Richard Kidder Meade says as he pulls up a chair on Hamilton’s left.

Hamilton reads the short entry with the header, ‘Subscription for Dancing Assembly’ at its top. Hamilton glances between the two men. “An assembly?”

“As though we have not held balls ourselves,” Tilghman says.

“I have seen you dance,” Meade adds. “And charm several ladies.”

“He charms all.”

Meade scoffs. “Not I.”

“Lies.”

“Yes.”

“When is this assembly?” Hamilton interrupts.

“The end of the week, I believe,” Tilghman says. He taps his finger on the page over the names listed under the message. “You see the General listed, myself and Meade as well. Harrison is certain to add his name and McHenry there. We are to ask other Generals of the army as well.”

“Is it considered an army social obligation then?” Hamilton says with some irritation to his tone. “Am I to be rebuked if I should say no to such?”

Meade sighs. “Hamilton, it is a social occasion of the town which has been so hospitable as to open its doors to us once more despite past trials we laid upon it.” Meade gives a hopeful smile. “Would we not do well to favor their assembly and dance with their ladies?”

“And,” Tilghman adds, “It could be something to improve your mood.”

“My mood,” Hamilton says though his tone betrays their truth without his intention.

Meade squeezes Hamilton’s arm, his voice full of affection. “Do not think we so blind as to see nothing of your downward turn in disposition.”

“We are aware that none of us in this office can match your closest friend or make up for his loss but would Laurens wish you to remain so dour and dark?” Tilghman taps the page again, an expression much like Harrison upon his face. “No, he should prefer your cheer.”

“And an assembly is cheer,” Meade says, smiling wide and raising his eyebrows. “Think of the ladies that will be glad to take your hand or listen to your words, beautiful faces and dancing and all manner of delights. And do you not deserve such?”

Hamilton stares at the page, thinks of dancing with Laurens in a dark room, or turning sets with smiling women and Laurens beside him. 

“Please, Hamilton,” Meade says drawing Hamilton’s eye. “It pains my heart to see you so.” 

Tilghman cuts in. “Why not allow your brooding time away in favor of this?”

Hamilton looks at the page. Why should he not find some cheer? If he cannot venture south then why deny himself here of such societal pleasures? He thinks of a wife Laurens has and a future Hamilton may want. This could be an opportunity, one he may take now with the social standing as a member of General Washington’s office. What ladies might he meet to catch his eye or strike a deeper fancy? What higher ranking men might he be introduced to leading to later connections after their war?

“Please?” Meade adds, making Hamilton turn to him now.

“You speak rightly.”

Both men make noises of appreciation. Hamilton smiles, eyes back on the page. There is one problem with this assembly, however.

“Sign then,” Tilghman says as he stands once more, with his hand held out for the paper.

“And your payment can be put into my hands when able,” Meade finishes. “I am to take the final list and monies into town this afternoon.”

Beside each name upon the list is the included a note of ‘paid 400 dollars.’

Hamilton stares at the paper. “Yes…”

Hamilton’s savings nowhere near equals four hundred dollars and, if it were, to put so much down to one night?

“Are they to have a dancing bear?” Hamilton mutters.

“Pardon?” Tilghman says, turning back to Hamilton. Meade glances round where he waits in the door.

Hamilton looks up sharply. “No matter.” 

Hamilton looks back at the page. He chews his lower lip as he thinks. The idea in his head now, he feels it a loss if he should be barred from this assembly due to finances. Additionally, he cannot disregard the shame that should come if he be the lone member of General Washington’s staff not in attendance. 

Hamilton dips his quill in the ink then quickly signs his name below Meade’s on the list. He holds up the page to Tilghman. 

Tilghman blows across the wet ink once then smiles at Hamilton. “I thank you.”

Tilghman skirts around Hamilton’s chair to follow Meade out the door on their rounds for attendees. Once they disappear into the hall, Hamilton flips over the draft he previously worked on. He marks down, ‘60,’ his pay for each month as an aide-de-camp. Hamilton’s eyes tick up as he counts months, his quill tapping on the page with each one.

“Six months.” Hamilton is owed six months back pay.

He marks the number on the page and writes the resulting sum out at the end of the maths. Hamilton smiles. “Three hundred and sixty dollars.”

He purses his lips for a moment. Six months of his pay would vastly improve his personal savings and it certainly would require long continued service to equal again. Yet he has no plans to leave the army at present, despite his disappointments. He is cautious in much of his actions and words but that is not to say he is not also daring and bold in regards to his own advancement. He sailed to New York alone, after all. It may be but one assembly but with such a sum requiring admittance all those there will be individuals of wealth and consequence which he may meet, and befriend. It is an opportunity possibly worth six months of his pen and sword.

Hamilton writes a formal line about his pay owed before the equation he made. Then he stoppers his bottle of ink and picks up the rough note. He walks from the room, grabs his hat and cloak from its hook near the front door then steps outside. 

It takes but ten minutes for him to find Caleb Gibbs at work near the road with some crates of supplies and a travel writing desk in his hands. He looks up as Hamilton nears, his quill stopping at once.

“Should I fear your approach as a sign of more requests to land upon my hands?”

“Not to fear, I hope,” Hamilton says. He holds up the one piece of paper. “I know the issue of money and pay a serious one with our army but I hope your affection for me may supersede this.”

“Yes?”

“I have a favor of a kind to ask.”

Gibbs merely raises his eyebrows.

When Hamilton finds Meade once more that afternoon outside with his horse, Hamilton hands over a piece of folded paper. “And your fee.”

Meade chuckles. “Yes, this shall remain in my own pocket. A pity you shall miss the dancing.”

Hamilton purses his lips but feels too much the loss of so great a sum to truly jest back with Meade. “I thank you.”

Meade writes Hamilton’s name on the face of the paper with a pencil then adds it to his saddle bags. “Well then, Hamilton, be sure to brush your coat and shine your shoes. I suspect you to be a favorite of our attendance.”

Hamilton smiles as he helps Meade onto his mount. “I shall succeed as best I am able.”

Meade makes a noise then smiles warmly down at Hamilton. “Good. I expect your smiles for the entirety of the night as I have missed them so.”

 **Day 49**  
Hamilton arrives with General Washington, Meade, Tilghman, Harrison and McHenry at the larger of the two courthouses in Morristown proper that Saturday evening. He wears his uniform, coat freshly laundered and his shoes clean as possible with the snow and dirt of the street. His green aide-de-camp riband crosses over his chest in a proud showing of position. He even employed his servant to powder his hair. The main courtroom turned assembly room itself is large, a wide and long room perfectly fit for dancing with its usual rows of benches and chairs removed. A hanging box is accessible from a floor above where half a dozen men, and oddly one woman, play string and woodwind instruments. Decorations harkening back to the Christmas holidays twist around banisters and window frames. Several tables near the walls hold food and drink, shining crystal glasses and beautifully patterned flatware.

The room is half full with guests upon their arrival, General Washington favoring punctuality over fashionable late arrival as others might. 

“I think some wine,” Tilghman says, hooking his arm around McHenry’s.

“I hope in moderation,” McHenry says at they walk away.

“Always, McHenry!”

Hamilton chuckles to himself at Tilghman’s inaccurate assertion. He turns to say something to Meade but the other man is no longer beside him, having followed Harrison. Hamilton starts to move toward the drink table himself when he hears his name.

“Alexander Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles to himself then turns around on his heel. “Miss Catherine Livingston.” She raises both her eyebrows at him and puckers her lips. He inclines his head with a grin. “My apologies, Kitty.”

“Precisely.” She taps her off-white fan which matches her dress upon his chest. “Do you bother me with pretense as if we two are strangers despite years of separation?” Her eyes tick up to his hair then back to his face. “You cannot hide from me, sir, even without your red.”

Hamilton first met Kitty before the war, when he lived with her family for a portion of his schooling. They have even written romantic letters in the past, playing their parts while a relation of hers aspired toward matchmaking. Kitty, though his senior and certainly frivolous in ways as woman are, always brought him amusement and pleasure to be around.

“Nor should I wish to,” Hamilton parries back in their repartee. “If I should desire an assembly with no joy or light, myself dull and spiritless, thinking only of the cold of winter and not the warmth of those ladies who make such dark days worth living, then I might hide from your visage.”

She titters, snapping open her fan to hide her thin, angular face behind the lace. Then she clicks it closed again. “You flatter me, sir, I see your way with words has not lessened over time.”

“Indeed, no, for it is you who brings it forth from my lips. How could I contain myself with such beauty and grace before me? And with so long apart I must make up for such a lapse of time with excessive pretty words so you do not think me a false friend.”

Kitty laughs once more. “I do proclaim I think no other man so well with words than yourself, Hamilton. I should think all others a bore now that you remind me how witty and amusing a man can be.” She purses her lips in some mock expression. “For shame, sir, you ruin the rest of your sex for a lady? How might I talk to any other now?”

Hamilton grins at her, feeling immensely better in playing this game. “Then do not. Eschew all other men and stay on my arm the whole night through.”

“Now, sir,” she says as if chastising and points with her fan. “You forget yourself. You think to claim me so with so many other gentlemen about? And what good woman should I be to further deny other ladies here your company?”

“I wise one to make such a catch.” He winks at her.

She laughs prettily once more, Hamilton chuckling with her. She breathes out then takes his arm, walking them among the growing throng of guests. “And how fare you sir? Do you find army life continually to your taste? Is Morristown warm in its reception to the mass of the army upon it once more as it did two years past?”

“Ah, you recall this?”

She raises her eyebrows. “As you no doubt recall my interest in politics of all manners, the relations of civilian and army, well…” She gives him a long look.

Hamilton shakes his head. “We are welcomed once more as you see by our admittance to this assembly.”

She chuckles. “Did you think them like to bar the door? Politeness and decorum do not equal welcome.”

“And you speak of my wit.”

“Ah!” Kitty squeezes her hand on his arm. “I see a lady woman whom I think you have been introduced to in the past, but perhaps do not yet know her well?” Kitty cocks her head closer to Hamilton’s. “She has a ready mind and interest in politics just as yourself and I. You will no doubt find her of some interest.”

“But how could I think so of another woman over you?”

Kitty snorts in a rather unlady-like fashion and lightly smacks his arm with her other hand as they weave around a trio of men. Then she stops them beside a young woman with powdered hair who turns her head at their arrival. Hamilton recognizes her, one of a party he met during his trip to Albany two years past.

“Elizabeth,” Kitty says. “I believe you have met the Lieutenant Colonel before but allow me to reintroduce. Elizabeth Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton.”

Miss Schuyler smiles at him and takes his offered hand. “A pleasure to see you again, sir.”

Miss Schuyler stands several inches shorter than Hamilton, which itself is something to recommend her. Her figure appears undoubtedly female but without some of the fragility seen in other women, not willowy or sickly in his estimation. A small indentation marks her chin but not to any unbecoming way. Her features are certainly very pretty, handsome in fact. 

Her most striking feature, however, beyond the display of her bouffant powdered hair are her eyes. She possesses beautiful dark eyes; they must be a shade of brown but are so deep as to easily be called back. Such a darkness opens up her eyes making them appear wide with wonder causing the whole of her face to seem lit up. As she looks at him, eyes of night, and mystery and promise, he feels much as if he could stare into her eyes the whole of the evening trying to find where they might end, what she might see; if the color should truly be brown or black and reveal itself to him if he looks long enough. He wants to ask her how men do not fall into her gaze with every look.

“And I you,” Hamilton manages to say, bowing over her hand. “We were allowed little time for acquaintance on our last meeting.”

“No, dinners do often seclude one to their partners on either side and if one is not seated near then they may not find a chance for acquaintance at all beyond first introductions.”

“Then a pleasure it is for you both to meet again here,” Kitty says, extracting her arm from Hamilton’s to grasp Miss Schuyler’s hand. “He is quite the wittiest man I know.”

Miss Schuyler looks to Hamilton again with a grin. “Is that so, sir? Do you pride yourself on your wit or does Catherine overstate?”

Hamilton’s lips twist up. “I would certainly not crow my own virtues so.”

“I am sure you must be allowed some pride in your own abilities. Not all men are blessed with a ready wit.” She turns more fully to Hamilton, clasping her hands around her pale blue fan. “Do you see yourself more a master of the spoken word or of the page?”

Hamilton tilts his head. “Must I choose between the two?”

Kitty laughs while Miss Schuyler merely smiles. “Perhaps not, as you are an aide-de-camp, to His Excellency General Washington, as I recall; I imagine you must have need of all forms of wit.”

“Wit alone is not enough for His Excellency’s service,” Hamilton replies. “I require intelligence as well.”

“Ah.” Miss Schuyler’s dark eyes widen and her lips form a perfect O shape. “Do you separate wit and intelligence? Can a man be witty without intelligence?”

“I think not, but a man can use his mind and fail in the manner of wit.”

“True, many a tutor of mine would be called dour but no doubt possessing of a mind of use.”

“But in the service of my office both are readily required and I am proud to serve well with both.”

“And here?” Miss Schuyler asks, twisting her wrist around so her fan indicates the room. “Do you consider yourself serving now in your socializing with the populace of Morristown?” Her eyes tick to where General Washington speaks with a small group. Her eyes turn back to him – a dark night with flickering candle light at the center. “Or is this pleasure here?”

“It feels a pleasure now,” Hamilton replies, his voice turned quiet.

“For shame,” Kitty says opening her fan and waving near her face. “I should think myself forgotten with Hamilton’s attentions now. Would you neglect your old friend, sir?”

Miss Schuyler turns to Kitty, grasping her free hand. “I would never take any pleasure from you, Catherine. I should prefer us all friends.”

Kitty closes her fan and waves the end at Miss Schuyler. “As always you are too good, Elizabeth. I know how readily this man can captivate with his speech.” She looks to Hamilton. “Do you not?”

Hamilton inclines his head toward Kitty. “With you as my partner, Kitty, I could extoll all night upon the joys and beauties of life.”

“Indeed.” Kitty looks back and forth between Hamilton and Miss Schuyler once. “But I think myself weary of banter now and in need of refreshment. No, sir.” She puts out a hand to stop Hamilton before he may even consider aiding her. “I escort myself in this moment as I would not leave Elizabeth unchaperoned in such a heated, busy chamber as this. I leave her charge to you.”

She points her fan at Hamilton, all mock seriousness, then shoots a wink at Miss Schuyler, Hamilton thinks he was not meant to notice. Then she turns on her heel and weaves away toward the edge of the hall, stopping with another friend before making it halfway.

“She is always a jovial companion,” Miss Schuyler says so Hamilton looks back to her. “And fond of nonsensical flirtation when able.”

Hamilton laughs a touch to loud despite himself at Miss Schuyler’s candor. “Indeed. You have the right of your friend.”

Miss Schuyler smiles. “I think you aware of such without me saying so. You appear able to play such a game as easily as she. Should I worry you devoid of a serious nature?”

“Do you believe a soldier able to be such?”

“I believe soldiers do not come in merely one style.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “And what style might I be?”

Her eyes circle around his face. She lingers at his lips then looks directly into his eyes. Her head tilts as if in genuine thought – and perhaps she is, not playing a game of court and society as Kitty, she is assessing what she sees. 

Then Miss Schuyler smiles and ‘hmms’ to herself. “I think I should need to know you better to know what measure of a soldier you should be. Now I can but say that with a mind in your possession and a clear will to use it, you are not a soldier which should remain in one sphere of the army for his full service. You are now an aide-de-camp to General Washington, of the highest office, such a position is admirable but I do not believe you began there. I think you a soldier on the rise.”

Hamilton forces himself to breathe in and asks, “And why should you say so?”

She shakes cocks her head in the other direction. “Because as you said yourself, you are a man of wit and intelligence in equal measure. You certainly do not shy away from a variety conversation and person, as easy with me as with Catherine. You appear so young yet now attached so highly.” Miss Schuyler pauses, her lips parted then she closes them again, a small smile and something he thinks she chooses not to say on her face. “But again, I know you very little now, sir. Perhaps I see in you what I would hope for you rather than what I know to be true.”

Hamilton smiles wide. He has an urge to take her hand once more. “What you wish for me is just what I should hope to be. The army has many opportunities for a man, honor and glory among them, as certain as any man would think. But it can be used just as well to secure a position and social standing.”

“A position within the army or as a citizen you mean?” Miss Schuyler asks. “I should imagine the more service you are able to give our country then the more your fellow men should respect and value your abilities at the close of our conflict.”

Hamilton nods. “If we think the best of men then we would hope for such.”

Miss Schuyler’s dark eyes widen again and she looks almost mischievous in expression. “And if you do not think the best of men?”

Hamilton smirks. “Then one must find a way to be master of his own future.”

“Is that what you do here with the army?” She asks. “Find a path and plan for your future?”

Hamilton looks at her tilted chin, the line of her light blue gown, a floral pattern over a periwinkle blue petticoat, the curl of hair resting against her neck and her dark, deep, black eyes – such eyes he cannot compare to, so separate and far away from a sky blue eyes – the darkest, earnest, lively eyes looking just to him.

“I think on my future now,” he replies, low enough so only she could hear, only she he wants to hear.

Her expression changes, her lips press tight and he sees her take a deep breath.

Around them then, the music finally begins the dancing set of the evening. Several among the crowd exclaim in appreciation, and couples begin to form up into a line near the middle of the room. Hamilton holds out his hand to her.

“Would you do me the honor, Miss Schuyler?”

She places her hand in his. “Yes.”

Hamilton leads her into line with at least two dozen other couples as space allows in the large room. He sees General Washington with Lady Washington across from him, Harrison a few sets down with a woman Hamilton has not met. McHenry rushes into line with a woman in unbecoming yellow at the very end just as the music sets off the dance. Then Hamilton looks only at Miss Schuyler across from him. 

They touch hands, passing back and forth through the dance. They change sides, cross hands, turn around one another – one his favorite sets with a twist in the middle and close eye contact so their shoulders brush. She watches only him through the dance, even when they turn with their corner positions instead and he takes the hand of a blond girl to Miss Schuyler’s left.

Miss Schuyler says, “I think you fond of dancing, sir. You dance less as one taught and more as one merely enjoying.”

Hamilton thinks unbidden of a different face, a different smile, of a man that is not here. Hamilton’s expression falls and his step falters as the two of them grasp hands once more.

“Perhaps I spoke too rashly,” Miss Schuyler continues, bringing him back to her glittering smile turned up toward him. “Do you dance so only because I force your hand?”

“Certainly not, it is just as you say. I enjoy dancing.”

“But have learned little?”

“Ah, Miss Schuyler, but I know my steps.”

They turn back into their lines into first position once more. Miss Schuyler nods at him, her eyes low at their feet before she looks up again. “We may have to share another dance for me to be sure.”

Hamilton chuckles quietly as they bow and curtsey. Then he takes her hand to lead her off from the finished dance. He looks down at her, the coif of her hair close to his cheek. He wonders at the color of her hair; it must be as dark as her eyes, her eyebrows betraying such.

“We certainly shall need to,” Hamilton says, his voice turning almost wistful. “Wit and dancing to recommend me to you, and such a pretty partner you make.”

“You are kind to say so. I may say you are a most diverting companion for a dance and assembly. I wonder at what more your mind might have to offer by way of words and wit, what politics and knowledge have you that I might yet need to hear?”

Hamilton grins at her, hangs on the words ‘need to hear,’ not ‘want’ but ‘need.’ 

“I should like to speak to you of anything you wish if you have the same to say to me. Do you prefer to speak on the war, that which wraps around all our lives, or should I ease your mind away from such dangers into safer pastures? Do you read much, Miss Schuyler? Or would you prefer a simple jest?” Hamilton glances to the musicians, bowing and blowing. “Or another dance. Tell me Miss Schuyler, what is your pleasure?”

Miss Schuyler smiles wide, her color rising and he sees his eagerness mirrored on her face. “All of these, sir. We have the night to fill.”

They spend the several hours left of the assembly side by side. They dance twice more in a row, cotillions of swings and turns and moulinets so their hands are touching over and over. Hamilton introduces Miss Schuyler to Tilghman, the pair of them laughing through nonsense conversation of horses and snow until she and Hamilton are alone once more, a serious turn back to her face and questions to him on the war, his office, the fate of New York. Then he takes her hand for a Minuet, her feet graceful and his less so but not a word of condemnation passes her lips. They sip wine together but need only refile their glasses once, so much of the night do they spend talking and laughing. Hamilton entirely forgets to eat and hardly notices the loss.

Her smile widens with every word he says, her face more fair and her eyes more like obsidian, fire cooled and shined, like an empty sky waiting to be lit up, wanting to be dotted with stars, asking for a moon to glow inside them. He touches her hand as they stand near each other, just a brush of her fingers, pushing propriety. She never pulls away and once her fingers grace his first between their glasses, a whisper of skin that sends a tingle up his spine. Her voice rings familiar and fond in his ears as the night nears its end. He thinks he should never forget the sound or the words she says, her mind ready and her speech forthright.

“I do not think I have spent such a pleasant evening in some time,” Miss Schuyler admits to him. “You have a mind for politics, that I think will find much need in our new country.”

“You sound certain of our victory,” Hamilton says as he sees General Washington making appropriate farewells to one of the local judges. “What if the British should turn victorious?”

“I have confidence in the strength and will of our forces. With a man such as you in a position of such importance, we are like to weather any difficulty and find a path through any impossibility the British may attempt to turn upon us.”

“You over estimate my importance, Miss.”

“I do not.” He stares at her as she smiles demur and bold at once. “You stand at the side of the commander of our forces and you do not hide your opinion.”

Hamilton leans his head closer to her. “Nor do you.”

She smiles and pushes her finger tips into the folds of her fan. “I value honesty and I feel I should give what I would wish to receive.”

“You wish me to be honest?”

“Yes.”

Hamilton stares at her, the room emptier now, Tilghman and Meade walking toward the door, McHenry casting a look in his direction. He sees a couple waiting some distance behind Miss Schuyler. Hamilton focuses on her face, earnest and open and gazing just at him as she has near the whole of the night. 

“Might I call on you?” Hamilton asks.

Her smiles flickers, attempting to run away with her, then she schools her features and nods. “Yes.”

 **Day 53**  
Hamilton and Tilghman pick up Miss Livingston and Miss Schuyler at the home of Miss Schuyler’s aunt and uncle with whom she is lodging during her stay in Morristown. 

Barely a week has passed since Hamilton met Miss Schuyler at the large assembly. Since that day, he has taken tea with herself and Kitty twice as well as attending dinner with Miss Schuyler and her family three times at their house. Hamilton and Miss Schuyler spent many hours speaking on widely varying topics – the war, the charms of dancing, Dutch traditions of her family, her ardent faith, the ancient Greeks, the Romans, the best style of uniforms, politics. Hamilton feels as though he could talk to her about any manner of thing, such an apt listener she makes and interested conversationalist. She reveals such passion, when she finds subjects most interesting, paired with a modesty and cheer, which all together cannot stop him from smiling every minute in her presence.

“I am well pleased Hamilton did not think to attempt to drive you both on his own,” Tilghman says as he holds the reigns and directs the horses.

Hamilton huffs at Tilghman, glancing back at the two women in the carriage. “I did confess myself ill-suited for being the master of such.”

“You did,” Kitty says, glancing at Miss Schuyler. “Though much of me wishes to give you a chance at the reigns to see just how ill-disposed you truly are.”

“Catherine,” Miss Schuyler chides. “If the Colonel thinks himself unequal to such a task we had best believe him.”

“Or take your lives into untrustworthy hands,” Tilghman says, flashing a grin over his shoulder at the two women.

Kitty laughs appreciatively but Miss Schuyler shakes her head. “Oh no, sir, I think Colonel Hamilton worthy of my trust in every regard, even if he should think himself a poor carriage driver.”

Hamilton smiles at her and wishes his angle would allow him to hold her hand. “I would spend as many hours and days I should need to bring myself up to such standards that would always ensure your safety if it were you ladies I should be privileged to ferry each day.”

Kitty laughs again, Tilghman says something over his other shoulder so only she should hear. Hamilton watches Miss Schuyler, her small smile back to him. 

They drive the carriage through the snowy paths leading out of town along narrow lanes winding into the woods. No snow falls at present though the bite of the cold still cuts all four of them what with their ride of the open, Phaeton carriage. Hamilton protested some concern at the women being exposed to such chill, but Miss Schuyler insisted upon it due to a desire to better see the woods and joy of the winter scenery.

“It is most idyllic,” Miss Schuyler says as Tilghman encourages the two horses on through the snow. 

Hamilton glances at her, both her hands buried inside her red velvet muff, and the hood of her matching cloak over her dark, curled hair – no powder today. She watches the scenery, a calm expression on her face. Hamilton follows her gaze, watching the snow caked trees with the occasional icicle clinging to bare branches. Sun glitters over the snow on the ground, catching spots of ice making twinkles of light that seem to dance and flash as they ride by. He sees the sun shine on Miss Schuyler’s face, even more beautiful in the true light than she appears by candle light.

“If it were but a touch warmer,” Kitty says. “I could do with a fire.”

“I do believe it was you ladies who opted for the open top,” Tilghman says with obvious amusement. “If you should catch cold now I shan’t be given the blame.”

“Oh no, sir? Is it not the men who should be looking more to our comfort and ease? I would think your advisement should have been given more forcefully. Would you not protect us, even from ourselves?”

“You say so now,” Tilghman exclaims. “What if either of we poor soldiers had tried such, I feel certain we to have lost against such feminine whiles even should we have attempted.”

“There!” Miss Schuyler says suddenly, pulling one hand free of her muff and pointing.

Hamilton turns his head. “What?”

“Stop the carriage!”

Tilghman attempts to look around while keeping an eye to the path and horses. “What might it –”

“Do as the lady asks,” Hamilton interrupts, gripping Tilghman’s arm.

Tilghman makes a disbelieving noise but pulls back on the reigns of the two horses, clicking with his tongue and making soothing noises as the two beasts slow to a stop. Hamilton jumps down from the driver seat and comes around to the back of the carriage, his hand on the edge of the door.

“My lady?” Hamilton asks, somewhat boldly.

Miss Schuyler’s lips twist and she nods. Hamilton opens the door and holds out his hand to her. She takes his hand, fingerless gloves of the same red as her muff over her hands, and steps down the two carriage steps into the snow.

She glances back to the carriage. “Catherine?”

Kitty shakes her head. “I have no desire to ruin my boots in the snow.”

Miss Schuyler turns back to Hamilton, her hand still in his. “Might you escort me then?”

Hamilton cocks his head to the side. “And where are you leading us?”

She smiles more, that engaging expression which always seems enhanced in beauty by the dark mirrors of her eyes. “You will see.”

She slides her hand up from his and hooks it around the crook of his arm. Then she flicks her eyes to the waiting wood and snow before them. They step off into the wood, her dress making soft swishing noises over the dry snow.

“Do not dally too long!” Tilghman cries after them.

Kitty says something Hamilton cannot hear as they walk which makes Tilghman laugh. Hamilton, however, watches the top of Miss Schuyler’s head and the turn of her chin as she leads on into the trees. They walk several yards through what Hamilton realizes now is a snow-covered foot path. Then the trees open to reveal a frozen pond, perhaps some fifteen feet wide and twice as long. In the spring and summer months it must be a beautiful spot for fishing or picnicking.

“Here,” Miss Schuyler says, taking her hand away from Hamilton’s arm. “Beautiful.”

“Indeed,” Hamilton murmurs as she walks closer to the edge.

She pushes her hood back with both hands, her muff left in the carriage, so her dark hair blows slightly with the winter breeze. Sun reflects off the surface of the ice, lighting up her face almost as much as her smile as she looks along the pond’s length. She puts a hand to her lips, a quiet sigh escaping. Then she turns her head toward him – silver earrings that match the white surroundings, her deep blue dress and red cape etching out her figure perfectly upon the world’s white canvas. Yet still her dark eyes and hair capture him most, he wants to call them black as night, a dark mystery he wishes to learn and unravel. He wants to put his hand to her curls and gaze into eyes from but a breath apart.

“Here.” She holds out her hand. 

Hamilton frowns at her, realizing her aim. “We have no ice skates.”

She laughs once – a tinkle of bells. “We have shoes upon our feet.”

“I do not call these the same,” Hamilton says as he takes her hand. “And we do not know the depth of the water.”

“It is but a pond and a winter this cold should have frozen it through.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “You are certain of this?”

“I am certain enough and I feel if I should have your hand in mine then I am more able to be bold.” She steps up to the edge of the ice. “Do you trust my judgement in this?”

Hamilton grins, wider still somehow. “I think myself willing to take however small a chance it should be that you could be wrong. If you should wish to skate the ice, Miss Schuyler, I would not have you do so alone.”

Hamilton steps up beside her, still upon the snowy ground, then he steps both feet out onto the ice first. He slides out cautiously as far as still holding her hand will allow. The ice beneath him makes no sound, no warning crack or even a groan as Hamilton would expect of wood under his weight. Miss Schuyler nods and takes two small steps out onto the ice with him. She wobbles to the side for a moment as she takes another step. Her hand flings up then down so Hamilton grasps her other hand. They both laugh as she levels out once more, both hands held out between them in a circle. 

She looks down at their feet – her small red heels and his riding boots. They slide left, feet matching pace, gliding without picking up their feet. Hamilton turns them about, pulling her hands gently so they slide over the ice in a small circle, both hesitant but growing bolder as they skate. He starts to widen the slide of his feet, pulling them further out over the ice, ice dust wafting up from the divots their heels make over the surface. 

Miss Schuyler laughs as they turn in a crisscrossing path. The pair of them look up in the same moment, a laugh still on her lips and a grin on his face. Her cheeks blush red now – from the cold or the intimacy of their solitude he cannot say. Her fingers clench tighter around his hands, pulling slightly so he slides inches closer to her on the ice. The shine off the ice near blinds him as they spin faster, further away from the edge. Hamilton wants to pull her tight against him, to slide her back and forth in a winter dance, the sun bright over them. 

His foot slips the wrong way for a moment, his balance threatened but Miss Schuyler holds tight to his hand keeping him upright. Then he pulls them in the opposite direction once more, sliding and skating and spinning and spinning with Miss Schuyler’s dark eyes on his face, lingering low, her finger tips pressing into his palm. The dusted ice floats in the air around them, small particles clinging to her eyelashes and glinting in the sunlight.

“Like magic,” she whispers and he wonders what she sees in his face to speak exactly what he thinks.

“A joy,” he whispers back and he means the ice, the winter, her hands in his, her smile up toward him, and her deep, dark eyes.

They slip and slide back to the shore, her heels nearly betraying her into falling so Hamilton must catch her by the elbows. Her hand touches his cheek as she regains her balance and he leans into the touch for the barest moment, the smallest breech of propriety – reminds him of a different hand creeping higher into his hair, of the touch of a hand replaced by lips. He wonders what Miss Schuyler’s lips should feel like under his. Then Miss Schuyler laughs, both feet in the snow and both hands grasping his to stop him suddenly sliding backward in distraction.

“We both skated so well in the middle of such ice but it is a return to solid ground which may cause us disaster.”

Hamilton grins and steps back into the snow. “I should not let you fall, Miss Schuyler, even if I should sacrifice myself to do so.”

“I would rather us both safe on our feet.”

Hamilton nods, their hands released, and he offers his arm. “And so we are.”

Back at the carriage, Kitty and Tilghman crow their displeasure at being forced to wait so long, at the cold creeping into their very bones, and the poor horses growing jittery. Hamilton and Miss Schuyler, however, pay little mind, both stealing glances and grinning through the cold they do not feel.

 **Day 66**  
“Gentlemen,” Laurens says as he stands before the South Carolina House of Representatives. “You have seen my proposal before and I ask you to consider it once again now.”

He sees the men about the room, each with a written copy of Laurens’ black regiment plan before them. About half the room watches him while the others stare down at the paper, a few jotting down notes of their own. Laurens worries at how many fully attend to his speech.

“Upon my last entreat to you in the cause of forming a black regiment, I was met with refusal. I understand your hesitation and reservations at the time and such that you may continue to harbor now. However, I would ask you to reconsider my proposal in this instance with fresh minds and attention.”

Laurens glances behind him to the speaker. The man nods once and gestures with one hand for Laurens to continue. Laurens clasps his hands behind his back and stays still where he stands.

“The state of our war, particularly the theater of our southern states, lies in a perilous condition. Savannah has been lost and our siege failed. Our numbers do not increase as we should need to combat the British. I have been able to secure the Virginia line to join us south from His Excellency General Washington, but this will likely still not be sufficient to stem the tide. Simply put, we need more men at arms in our army.”

Laurens paces two steps to the congressional reporter’s small desk and picks up his first fair copy of his plan. He holds it up before him, a note near the bottom from when Congress first saw it.

“A black regiment of three thousand men, as Congress has approved, would fill this gap. Such men raised would serve under white officers and, through their service, would have the incentive of their guaranteed freedom after the war. In the absence of more able-bodied patriot white men, we must seek an alternative. These slaves would have even more cause to fight as they would secure their freedom through the effort in a far more tangible and immediate way than even we from our British oppressors.”

Laurens turns the paper around, so the words face the assembled men, all eyes watching him now with varying expressions.

“I may offer slaves of my father, Henry Laurens, as the first among such a formed regiment. I also state that it may be up to the men of this body to determine what process may be made to decide upon which men to recruit beyond this. I understand the reservation about the loss of one’s property.” 

Laurens feels the words stick in his throat and must control himself not to lash out at the unrepentant faces before him, to not accuse, to not use words like ‘barbaric,’ ‘sinful,’ or ‘inhumane.’

“Yet most men have been forced to make sacrifices for this war; men have sacrificed their lives.” He drops his hand with the page, an audible sound which makes at least two men twitch. “We fight for our colonies, our homes, and we cannot afford hesitancy now, certainly not in South Carolina where the British soon knock upon our very doors.” Laurens points sharply to the double doors of the room at the rear. “Without such an addition as my black regiment to our force we may well lose this city.”

A murmur rustles through the room, a few men whispering to each other, and disbelief on many faces. Laurens sees several men shake their heads. Laurens breathes in deeply and attempts to quell his own fervor.

“A black regiment is our best option to bolster our forces and refresh our fight.”

Laurens hears a man scoff near the rear.

“I have detailed options for this plan, how black men may be recruited and trained –”

“Train them, can you?” Someone interjects causing a ripple of laughter through the room.

“You think them unknowledgeable of how to cause harm?” Laurens retorts, unable to check himself. “After such experience they have?”

Laurens feels the mood of the room change, hostility from knowledge of one’s own guilt shifted toward him. Laurens breathes in deeply, glancing at the floor, fearing the point escaping now and his plan losing ground. He pulls up his head and keeps his expression neutral. He thinks about Hamilton, how he might argue the point with eloquence and fairness; how he might keep such men on his side without wounding their pride or vanity.

“I do not debate the issue or morality of slavery now,” Laurens says against his own instincts. “I ask only instead for the men needed to fight our common enemy, our larger threat. I ask for the ability to raise these men to fight for us, to help us protect our own land and homes. I have the offer for them of their freedom, just as we desire ours.” Laurens’ hand fists around the corner of the paper he still holds. “I ask for the acceptance of this place to ease the burden of those men serving in our army, serving you. I ask you to approve this plan and allow able-bodied men to fight and win our war.”

“Lastly, I must say,” Laurens turns and puts the abused paper on the reporter’s desk, unable to keep the threat from his tone. “If we do not enlist and arm these men ourselves, then the lure of similar British promises may take them as easily. A promise of freedom for such men will be acceptable no matter whose hand brings the offering. Better it be ours.”

The Representatives debate for less time than Laurens would have hoped. When he is called back into the chambers to hear the results of their discussion, he knows the decision not in his favor even before the Speaker begins.

“In the proposal to approve the forming of a regiment of black soldiers for the Continental army. Those in favor say ‘aye.’”

A smattering of ayes, most sounding half hearted and guilty, echo through the room.

“Those against state ‘nay.’”

A far more resounding chorus of nays reply. 

The Speaker picks up his gavel and taps it once. “The nays have it. The motion is rejected.” He looks up from the papers upon his podium to Laurens. “This speaker notes, however, and from the previous debate, in regards to any future recurrence of this issue that such a plan ought to be adopted only in the last extremity.”

Laurens thinks Hamilton would not have been surprised.

When Laurens returns to his father’s house, he finds H. Laurens in his study, account books under his quill. He looks Laurens up and down then leans back in his chair. “John. I suspect from your countenance your plan to the House did not pass?”

“No, sir, it did not.”

“Hmm.” H. Laurens nods then turns back to his books. “It was worth an attempt, I grant you.”

Laurens stares at the side of his father’s face for some seconds. Then turns back around and out of the office door. He passes James in the hall – James who came north on several occasions bringing Laurens cloth or whatever else he should have requested of his father, James who is still young and able-bodied, James who is his father’s slave and Laurens with no path to offer him toward his freedom.

Laurens writes Hamilton with his anger full upon him now, the short sightedness, the selfishness of the men he entreated; his failure once again of a plan that should be a twofold good; the perilousness only those on the parapet appear to see.

Laurens writes, 

_How I would rather my arms full of you than these troubles, how much I would rather your kisses than this rejection, how much I would rather your words and voice than theirs; can I tell you enough how very dearly I hold even the memory of you here and how often I must remind myself of the needs of our fight, my service and sword, how steadfast I must hold myself to the duties of a patriotic citizen when in my dark thoughts the selfish side of my own, which I abhor in these men, calls me to return only to your embrace, the sweet press of your body, the radiance of your eyes._

_My dear Hamilton, in such disappointments I convince myself to hear still your voice, a whisper in my ear that says, ‘fear not, my Jack,’ and I am invigorated once more._

**Day 70**  
Hamilton dines with Miss Schuyler at the home of her uncle and aunt, Dr. John Cochran. He has spent most evenings since their meeting dining with Miss Schuyler and her family. He expected more resistance from General Washington and the military family for his frequent absence from headquarters but he suspects some intervention from Lady Washington in his favor; or perhaps the family thinks along much of same lines as he.

“But the question must be put forth now,” Dr. Cochran says. “Why act as though we should lose? Instead we should plan for a victory.”

“You think our future government would be much different from that of England?” Hamilton asks, playing the devil’s advocate.

“Indeed,” Dr. Cochran continues, a potato on the end of his fork as he points it. “There should be no king.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “And what should you prefer then? Congress as the only governing body? Or perhaps a pure democracy?”

Dr. Cochran scoffs. “Do you think it apt to leave the governing choices to the full masses of our colonies, those uneducated and illiterate?”

Mrs. Cochran smiles. “If one cannot read, how can they vote?”

“Then how should you account for the voice of those people?” Miss Schuyler asks. “Are we not fighting this war now because the voice of our colonies was denied in the English government? How can we then turn our own governing into a picture of the same?”

“You would trust every man to choose apt governing?” Hamilton asks her.

She runs her finger over the rim of her wine glass. “I would trust each man with an option to vote his mind.”

“And what if they should not know their mind? What if they have no head for politics?”

“Is politics not every part our lives?” Miss Schuyler asks, pulling her hand back to the table beside her plate. “Can one not see politics in the price of goods, in the borders of farms, in taxes? Every person who breathes finds themselves touched by politics in some manner.”

Hamilton smiles at her, watches the way her fingers curl and uncurl as her passion peaks. “And yet they may not know this so, they may think it economics and see not such a larger whole. What of representatives to speak for them, just as in Congress, as in the state legislatures.”

“And how might they be chosen?” Miss Schuyler asks. “There is still a vote.”

“Not as the House of Lords, you mean?”

“What titles have we here?” Miss Schuyler retorts. “We have no Earls and Lords as England.”

“But you narrow down so now,” Dr. Cochran breaks in. “I return us to the basic frame work. What of it?”

“Much as our Congress now,” Hamilton says, “Perhaps a republic instead of a true democracy, something safer with those educated and best to know put in power.”

“Or perhaps less so than this.” Dr. Cochran laughs. “Why a need for a national government to become a king once more? Each state may as well govern themselves. Each has its own legislature and Governor now, would we dissolve them?”

“But if the states should merely rule themselves,” Miss Schuyler asks, “then how are we united any longer? Are we not then just separate neighbors?”

“A national government would be necessary,” Hamilton picks up from her. “It need not be all powerful but something must keep our states as one.”

“I think you all most beyond yourselves,” Mrs. Cochran says, tapping her fork upon her plate. “We have yet to win the war, might we wait for this before we reform our nation?”

Dr. Cochran, Hamilton and Miss Schuyler all laugh at once. Dr. Cochran puts his hand over his wife’s, murmuring something which includes ‘ever pratcial.’ Hamilton looks to Miss Schuyler, her plate empty now and very little wine in her glass. She smiles back at him, her fingers near his on the table. He wants to reach across the space and thread their fingers tight – lead her away into some silent dance or hear her speak more with a passion matched to his for politics or watch her walk outside in the darkness, snowflakes caught in her dark hair.

Hamilton is granted the latter of his dreamings, as Dr. Cochran suggests Hamilton escort the ladies outside for a turn about the snow.

“It is uncommonly hot inside for a winter month and the air should do them both well for a short spell.”

Hamilton and Miss Schuyler walk side by side, Mrs. Cochran a couple yards behind so they may speak in privacy. They walk in the garden, manicured hedges covered with snow. Statues mark the furthest corners of the little park, not as large as country manors may boast but pleasant enough for a house in town.

“I have enjoyed dining with you and your family so many evenings,” Hamilton says. “They are a welcoming couple.”

“Yes,” Miss Schuyler replies, the back of her hand brushing his. “And I know it but a short time but I believe they feel you near a member of the family now.”

Something catches in Hamilton’s throat quite out of his expectation. He swallows and merely nods, untrusting of his voice.

“I do hope your presence shall continue during your quartering here.” She glances up at him. “I should like it very much. You bring such a lively conversation on so many topics. I cannot imagine a man with as much knowledge as yourself.”

Hamilton chuckles. “I have done much to expand my knowledge as often as I can, though my service does hinder this.”

“It is perhaps worldly experience you find through your service then?”

“Ah yes, through my army work at desk and office.”

“And I pray to God it remains more so for the sake of your person.” She brushes her hand over a snowy bush leaving trails of her finger tips. “But it is a position of the highest importance and experience most men do not attain.”

Hamilton nods as they turn around the edge of the snowy garden – the corner statue of a woman holding a water jug aloft. “Perhaps so, I am honored to have it and it certainly provides lessons in the management of an army and all manner of personal politics.”

Miss Schuyler laughs. “I suspect so, every man with a pride to protect and personal ambitions.”

Hamilton chuckles back. “You believe so?”

“I have lived my life among men of fortune and can see enough to know their desires and aims in some small respect. I do not claim to understand all or know the full measure of men’s responsibilities.” She looks up at Hamilton again. “But I know each man must care for his own fortune and family in some manner. I assume the army to have similar lines of function.”

“You assume rightly.”

They walk on down another line of the garden, back in the direction toward the house. He notices Miss Schuyler shivers slightly, her muff left inside but at least a cloak about her shoulders. Hamilton looks down at his hands and pulls off his heavy riding gloves.

“Miss Schuyler?”

She looks at the gloves and laughs once. “For me?”

“They may not match your attire and perhaps be too large for such hands as yours, but…” Hamilton reaches out and takes one of her hands. He fits his glove over the one, pulling it as far as it may go against her fingers. Then he takes her other hand and does the same. He grins at her. “You shall be much warmer.”

Miss Schuyler titters fetchingly, holding up her hands to look at the gloves that appear mostly comical over her hands – too large and obviously masculine. “Warm indeed.” She pulls her hands down once more and looks at his hands. “But what of your hands?”

“I would prefer your comfort, Miss Schuyler.”

“Elizabeth – Eliza even.”

“Pardon?”

“We have spent enough time together now, Colonel Hamilton. I should prefer you call me by my Christian name. I should wish to hear…” She visibly breathes in and her face takes on that expression from when she stepped out on the ice, bold. “I should like to hear my name from you.”

Hamilton stares at her – her eyes swallowing the dark around them, the cream of her dress matching well with the snow, a dark cloak about her shoulder still lighter than her midnight hair. He wonders how she should look standing beside Laurens, dark black curls and honey blond locks, her smile of stars and his lips of sunlight.

“Eliza,” Hamilton says, his voice deep and full of more feeling than he expected. “I would gladly call you Eliza.”

Eliza makes a breathy noise, a sigh or a gasp, he cannot say. “Yes.”

“And you must call me Alexander.”

She laughs and puts a gloved hand to her lips. “Alexander.”

“Eliza,” Hamilton says again, relishing the sound. “I should say it every day, I should say Elizabeth, Eliza… what other name might you have?”

“Other?

“Beth or El?”

Eliza giggles again. “No one has ever called me such.” She makes a somewhat put out face. “They sound like children’s names, I think.”

“Betsy,” Hamilton says, watching his own glove at her lips. “What of Betsy?”

She stares at him, eyes circling around his face. Then she kisses the points of the gloves, a deliberate press and a smile on her face. “I think it perfect in your voice.”

“I think you perfect,” Hamilton says without intention.

Eliza pulls her hand away from her mouth. She slowly pulls off one glove then the other. She holds out her hand which Hamilton takes. She curls her fingers around his, they two standing in the snow and the dark and stars above them. 

“And you are a most worthy man.”

Hamilton sees her in a house, their house with two parlors, a dining room and a study of his own; he sees her as a hostess at tea, at a dinner, walking at his side through New York City Streets, visiting his office, at Congress; he sees her with a child in her arms, their child. He sees a path of years, years with her radiant dark eyes, her magnificent hair, the curve of her hip, the radiance of her smile, her hand in his just like this moment.

“Oh, Betsy,” Hamilton says quietly, the cold so far away with her warm and near, “I must tell you how I love you.”

She sighs, “I feel myself so unworthy of it, but you must know I am just as sincere.”

“Yes?”

“I love you so, Alexander.”

When Hamilton leaves the house and approaches camp, his head full of Eliza, her eyes and hand and mouth and her kiss upon the gloves over his hands, the night sentry stops him at the edge of camp.

“Password?”

Hamilton opens his mouth then stares. He blinks several times. “I… uh… Washington?”

The Sentry gives Hamilton a withering look. “No, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Come, you know me,” Hamilton pleads, still wracking his brain for what the password he recently learned to be.

“All who enter must give the password.”

“Must?”

“Yes, sir.” The sentry stands more fully in the gate. “Password?”

Hamilton huffs. “I… Cicero? Plato?”

“I did not say it of the Greeks or Romans.”

“You gave me no hint at all.”

“Avignon,” A whisper to Hamilton’s left says.

“Ford!” The sentry hisses to the small Private who spoke.

“Avignon,” Hamilton repeats.

The sentry looks back and forth between Ford and Hamilton. He appears to want to protest but Hamilton twists around him with a grin. “Password given.”

“Lieutenant Colonel…” The sentry moans.

Hamilton only gives him a wave and crunches on through the snow back toward Ford Mansion. He taps his fingers to his lips – kisses he might imagine still there meant for his lips. He thinks ‘Elizabeth, Eliza, Betsy’ in a loop through his head; any one would make an excellent password he would be sure not to forget.

 **Day 74**  
Laurens stands in the hall outside General Lincoln’s office with several other Colonels and Lieutenant Colonels. From inside the office, all the waiting men easily hear the sounds of argument and frustration.

“…if they should come by land,” Continues General Hogun.

“The plan for the continued construction of the barricades –” The Commander of the corps of engineers, Duportail, begins.

General Moultrie cuts him off. “We are a peninsula, they will come by water and land.”

Someone else says something too far from the exterior door for Laurens to hear from his post. Laurens turns his head to Jean Baptiste Ternant, a friend of Valley Forge and from his previous service in the south the year before, standing beside him. The man only shakes his head. 

A Colonel down the line whispers. “I believe he mentioned the water side walls.”

“It is like Savannah,” Another Laurens cannot see hisses.

“It is not Savannah,” Laurens retorts. “Because we will not yield.”

Ternant’s eyes tick to Laurens’ again but he says nothing.

Within the room something thumps – a hand on a table or a book dropped?

“… Simmons Island is still thirty miles south. We have time… of reinforcements. Colonel Laurens assured us of the Virginia line…”

Every head in the hall turns toward Laurens. Laurens jaw clenches and he stares straight ahead. He has heard nothing further from General Washington or the northern headquarters regarding the promised reinforcements since his arrival.

“And?” Ternant asks Laurens softly.

“I do not know as yet.”

“You should write,” Ternant says.

“I should.”

“Perhaps on offensive,” General Moultrie clearly says inside the office. “If Savannah is an example –”

General Pinckney’s voice erupts, “You lost Savannah, General!” 

Noise of overlapping arguments bursts from the closed room and the Colonels in the hall all turn their heads, a few whispering approval or refutes to each other. Laurens grimaces himself thinking on their attempted retaking of the city, his position on the lines. Yet he worries at the Generals’ distraction from the purpose now. They cannot argue on Savannah when it is lost and Charles Town still stands.

Footsteps sound down the hall as the arguments continue. Laurens sees a Corporal coming toward them with a letter in hand. One Colonel down the hall tries to stop the man but the Corporal swerves around him and makes straight for the closed door. The Corporal knocks hard on the wood with his fist even before he stops walking. Laurens looks down – mud on the man’s shoes, a tear in his breeches, and the name on the letter, ‘Major General Benjamin Lincoln.’

“What is it?” Laurens asks the man. “An advance?”

A voice sounds from inside and the Corporal opens the door. Laurens catches the edge of the door as it swings back in the Corporal’s wake. Laurens shifts around to allow himself enough of a view, a few of the other men vying for a space near him.

“Sir,” the Corporal says, throwing up a salute and holding out the letter. “Word of the British advance.” The man takes a gasping breath. “They have reached James Island.”

Laurens sees every General turn his head to the courier and a few men outside in the hall curse under their breath.

“So soon?” General Hogun says in the void.

Lincoln takes the letter and turns back to the table where the other Generals cluster. He waves out the Corporal and points over his shoulder. “And close the door.”

The door shuts sharply behind the Corporal who looks left and right at the half dozen men staring at him now. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I know nothing further.”

“James Island?” Ternant asks. “Is that not but across the harbor?”

“Did we think they’d stop?” one man quips.

“What of their troop?” Someone asks. “How many?”

The Corporal looks forlorn. “I do not…”

“Is it land or sea?”

“Land,” the Corporal replies.

“I should wager both,” Another man interrupts.

“Where on the island are they found?” Laurens asks, raising his voice above the others and silencing the rabble. “Surely the scouts have some further location?”

The Corporal shakes his head. “I know only Cornwallis crossed the Stono River. We have learned such only this morning.”

“Fast…” Ternant mutters.

“And the question only if they should march northwest to cross the Ashley River or will they wait for ships to attack directly on the water side?” Laurens extrapolates.

A few of the men start to interrogate the trapped Corporal again but Laurens turns and walks away down the hall, Ternant following.

“It shall be both,” Ternant says as the two of them reach the stairs. “You know this.”

“Yes.”

“Will the Virginia line be enough reinforcements to hold them back?”

“I imagine not, what with a land attack and sea.”

“Laurens.” Ternant grips Laurens arm, stopping his hurried march as they reach the bottom of the stairs. “There is a chance. The British held Savannah, why not we Charles Town?”

Laurens smiles slowly at Ternant. “Indeed. I am prepared to lay down my life before I let this city fall to the British sword.”

Ternant stares at him and blows out a breath. “I hope it should not come to that.”

Laurens nods, “Nor I, but we have retreated enough and should Charles Town fall we may lose the whole of the south.”

“And the war,” Ternant whispers.

“This,” Laurens points, “this will not happen.”

Charles Town Headquarters rushes through the remainder of the day with continued efforts to repair the city’s water side fortifications, engineer lists of needed materials, orders for increasing the sentries, additional spies sent out to determine British position and plans, renewed vigor to finish the land side battlements, letters written for supplies with a view to a siege and inquiries to reinforcements. Plans are discussed about scuttling ships upon the waterside of Charles Town to keep any British boats out of the harbor but most officers think it premature. 

“Washington writes that we might abandon the city to save our forces,” General Lincoln says to his counsel of advisors.

“We cannot abandon the city!” Laurens insists.

“And risk such a loss of men instead?” General Hogan counters. “What should that do to our war as a whole? Would you raise one city higher?”

“I would not have us flee like cowards!” Laurens snaps.

General Hogan’s mouth drops open.

“Lieutenant Colonel, hold your tongue!” Lincoln snaps at Laurens. Then he continues to the assembled men. “But it matters not, I have spoken with the civilian government and they have convinced me of the right of we remaining.” 

A mummer ripples through the officers but none respond. 

General Lincoln continues. “We still have Fort Moultrie and we are bolstering the defenses.”

“But should such repairs and rebuilding come in time to stand a siege?” General Pinkcney asks.

“I could write again to General Washington on reinforcements,” Laurens offers.

General Hogan shakes his head. “He advised our abandonment of the city because he can spare no more if he must maintain the stalemate of the north.”

“And lose the south as a result?” Laurens asks.

“For now,” Lincoln says, shutting down the other men speaking, “we shall send a force of dragoons and militia to Monck’s Corner. We must keep our channel of supply and communication free of a British choke, as they will no doubt attack from both the North and South.”

“What more can we do?” Moultrie asks.

Clinton sighs. “Wait.”

It is some time after seven when Laurens sits down in a near quiet room to pen a letter to Hamilton. A few officers of the engineering corps work in the corner, plans of the land side battlements before them. Laurens attempts to write quickly, his penmanship suffering, but he wants to join the sentries on the defensive wall this evening. He feels too awake, to jittery with eagerness and fear.

_…and with the British now encamped on James Island but across the water from the nose of Charles Town we are on alert for the speed of their advance from both land and sea. We know of their ships anchored in Savannah and General Cornwallis among the marching troop._

“Whom do you write, General Washington or your Hamilton?”

Laurens looks up as Ternant sits down, a bundle of letters and some rolled paper in his hands. 

“You might well guess.”

“Either should be of sense with you.”

Ternant is, as Laurens thinks of him, another of Baron von Steuben’s brood. He is a Frenchman, he is talented, he deserves more appreciation than he receives due to lack of written recommendations, and his inclinations are similarly in line with the Baron’s. It was he who delivered at least one of Laurens’ letters to Hamilton in the past. Like-minded people find one another, even in war.

Laurens nods toward his letter, dipping his quill in ink once more. “Hamilton.”

“Do you think he like to bend His Excellency’s ear further to our plight? I know The General wrote General Lincoln of the impossibility of additional reinforcements but this must not be so.”

Laurens sighs. “I still worry over the promised Virginians, if they should ever arrive.”

Ternant frowns. “You think the General like to go back on his word?”

“I think despite his position as Commander of the army, other Generals and Congress wield power and fear for the state where they lie more than actual battle and siege they cannot see.”

Ternant unrolls one circle of paper, a city map slowly revealing. “You are cynical.”

“I am realistic,” Laurens replies, sounding much like Hamilton to his own ears. “I have worked as His Excellency’s aide time enough to know the politics at work despite our united goal.”

“Then Hamilton?”

Laurens sighs looking down at his writing filling the majority of the page thus far. “I must vent my feelings upon a willing source.”

“In place of calling senior officers cowards?”

Laurens eyes tick up again. Ternant cocks his head, powdered hair looking somewhat worse for a busy day no doubt. 

Laurens looks back to his letter. “You heard of this?”

“Your father cannot protect you from rank, Laurens.”

“Do not patronize me, Ternant, I know my error.”

Ternant makes a chastising noise but says no more.

Laurens writes as Ternant adds notes to his map, the light scratch of their quill and the discussion of the engineers the only sound in the room. Ternant stands soon to join the engineers, he trained in France in the same background. Laurens moves on to a second page.

_I feel my patience growing thin on the precipice of such an action as we have no doubt but to expect. The memory of Savannah looms in all minds, my own no less, yet now we find ourselves on the opposite position of within the city fearing the enemy without. I try to turn my thoughts to pleasanter memories of your face and kiss, how I miss the ease of reaching across the table for your hand. I mourn that we had but a few weeks in Morristown before I resumed my duty here._

“And him?” Laurens looks up at Ternant’s soft words. “He was not granted his leave to join you?”

Laurens shakes his head, putting his quill down in the inkpot. “No, as I suspected.”

Ternant rubs his hand briefly across Laurens’ shoulders. “Then you must wait to see his fine eyes, vibrant hair and noble chin when you return to him upon our victory.”

Laurens raises an eyebrow at Ternant as he starts to turn back to his fellow engineers. “I do not recall saying such to you.”

Ternant dips his chin down, his eyes mischievous. “You forget, Laurens, I have seen him myself.”

Laurens narrows his eyes. “I think the Baron a bad influence on you.”

“Oh no, I think him very good in many ways,” Ternant retorts.

Laurens finally laughs as Ternant walks away and Laurens picks up his pen once more, curling letters of ink, _I miss you, your beautiful eyes, my dear._

 **Day 87**  
Alexander Hamilton walks through the snow from the lane up to the house of Dr. and Mrs. Cochran. His arms tingle and an ache fills his belly as he walks. Despite his apprehension, his mind is full of hope and expectation and want and love.

Hamilton takes a near leap over the three steps to the door and knocks hard. It is before dinner, the sun still out. A servant answers the door and sees him into the hall.

“I am expected, to call upon Miss Schuyler.”

The servant nods his reply and walks off to fetch his mistress. Hamilton waits in the hall, his hat under his arm and his hands folding over and over each other. He thinks about Eliza’s smile, her laugh, the feel of her hand in his as they slid over a private icy pond. He thinks of her dark eyes catching the light and staring up into his as if no other had been seen by her like this before him. He sees the beauty of her lips, her chin, the length of her neck and hip, how much he longs to hold her tight and close as a lover.

Laurens springs to his mind, so very different, so far away, so absent. Yet Hamilton still feels Laurens in his heart – his boldness, his smile, his kiss, his bravery, his affection, his passion – for their fight, for freedom, for Hamilton – his Jack.

“He must be happy for me,” Hamilton whispers to himself. 

Laurens cares deeply for Hamilton; Hamilton knows this. So, Laurens must be pleased for Hamilton to increase his own happiness, to secure a future and a home for himself, to secure a wife – just as Laurens has. This is not a betrayal.

“Alexander.”

Hamilton grins at the sight of Eliza walking down the stairs. She holds out her hand which he takes and kisses quickly. She makes a small noise then leads the pair of them into the formal parlor.

“I am so pleased to see you,” She says, still holding his hand.

“And I you,” Hamilton replies. “I am to leave for a prisoner exchange in Amboy tomorrow and could not bear leaving without seeing you.” He breathes in deeply. “Without asking you something.”

Her lips twitch and her countenance seems to straighten up. “Before that. I have something for you.” She reaches into the folds of her dress near her hip and the pocket beneath. She pulls out a small circular portrait. “For your journey and so I shall be always near you.”

She places it in his palm. It is a picture of Eliza, her hair powdered, a white dress on, and eyes toward the viewer. It looks as if she smiles just for him, as if the way she sits in the portrait she awaits nothing grander than his return to her arms. 

If Hamilton required any type of sign to know his task to be intended then this is it. He puts the portrait into his coat pocket then takes both of her hands in his.

“Miss Schuyler, Eliza… my dear Betsy.”

Eliza sighs quietly and her fingers tighten around his. He knows, she knows.

“If I were to ask your mother and father, and if it being agreeable to them, would you consent to marry me, to be my wife?”

Eliza’s face brightens like the sun in the sky – like stars in her dark eyes, like stars in his eyes – she steps even closer to him, their joined hands the only thing between them. Eliza smiles wide up at him and she says, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some of the major references:
> 
> [To Alexander Hamilton from Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 18 December 1779](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0546)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 8 January [1780] ](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0568)  
> [Subscription for Dancing Assembly, [January–February 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0588)  
> [To Alexander Hamilton from Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 24 February 1780 ](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0606)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Catharine Livingston and Elizabeth Schuyler, [January–February 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0587)  
> [Hamilton and Kitty](http://discoveringhamilton.com/alexander-hamilton-kitty-livingston-april-1777-letter/)  
> [Elizabeth painting](https://collections.mcny.org/Collection/Elizabeth%20Schuyler%20Hamilton%20\(Mrs.%20Alexander%20Hamiliton\)-2F3XC5ZHCFN.html)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler, [17 March 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0622)  
> [Siege of Charleston](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Charleston)  
> [Southern theater of the American Revolutionary War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_theater_of_the_American_Revolutionary_War)  
> [Siege of Charleston 1780](https://www.mountvernon.org/library/digitalhistory/digital-encyclopedia/article/siege-of-charleston--1780/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 108**  
“Fire!” Laurens cries.

The sound of gunshots snap through the air from a battalion’s worth of men. Along the shore and further inland, British soldiers duck and attempt to keep at their tasks. Several men in boats midway across the river fire back, though no shot hits any target.

“Fire!” Laurens calls for the second line, shots answering at once.

Several more British dive for cover, one man falling back into the river though he resurfaces a second later. Several enemy men run down the line of anchored boats, side arms drawn. Shots fire and Laurens’ men answer with jeers.

“Reload!” Laurens says as he watches the enemy artillery float across the water. “We skirmish only, men!” Laurens adds.

He would rather an all-out engagement now but he cannot deny the difference in numbers and advantage on the British side. The British move their heavy weaponry across a narrow point in the river now to a point only two miles from Charles Town and closer still to the Continental barricade wall.

“Fire!” Laurens cries again from his horse as several lines of British troops start to form up.

The sounds of gunshots break the air again, one man in the British line falling backward. Laurens urges his horse down the line, men switching position so the ready second line may fire. Across the ground between them, the British line kneels and shoots toward them. Laurens’ men shout again, curses and sounds of anger, one man falling forward but it appears only a graze.

“Fire!” Laurens commands. “Fire!”

The small British line scatters at the American shots, several men retreating behind supplies. More troops land on the shore, their numbers slowly increasing over Laurens’ men. At least a dozen join the protective British line while more help with the moving of munitions.

“Reload,” One of Laurens’ line officers cries. “Come men, spread out.”

Laurens hears something shouted by the British commander as another cannon is perilously rolled over a plank off of a boat. Laurens counts the guns as they reach the shore and gazes beyond to those still awaiting their crossing. He pulls out shot for his pistol, watching the British troops for any sign of advance.

“Sir?” A Captain stands beside Laurens’ horse. Laurens looks down at him in question. “No scouts spotted but they appear to be breaking ground.”

Laurens turns toward the British troops then back to the Captain. “Trenches?”

“They have wood too.”

“Then this may be their first parallel.”

The Captain nods. “Unless they plan to force us back and make a closer line?”

Laurens pours powder into his pistol and shakes his head at the man. “They will not. Inform the men we hold here at least an hour before we fall back.”

They are not meant to make a serious engagement, guarding only against British surprise advance, and to retreat slowly back toward their own lines. This does not mean that Laurens intends to do so quickly. They shall extend their duty until night falls.

Laurens cocks his gun and holds it out over the heads of his soldiers. “Fire!”

They skirmish with the British advance for several hours. They attempt to keep their fire to a minimum as Laurens has no doubt every bullet, bag of powder and shot will be needed in the days coming. Laurens rides up and down the line, even coming around in front of his men several times to shout at the enemy. 

“What of a moving target?” Laurens fires his pistol, making one British Colonel on horseback curse in Laurens’ direction. “Oppressors! Return to England where you are welcome!”

“Traitors!” The Colonel yells back at Laurens, waving his sword in the air erratically. “You look a horde of ragged Crackers!”

“Bloody backs!” Laurens calls as he reaches the end of the line.

The Colonel throws an empty powder bag that merely flutters down to the dirt near him. “Rabble!”

Laurens’ men echo his insults behind him, hisses and shouts and anything they may do to disrupt and keep the British where they land. 

Laurens sends men out along their line inland to ensure no British advance force tries to sneak around them. They appear to be in preparation of their own entrenchments but this does not mean they may not attempt a closer, earlier attack. They cannot discount such.

“Fire!”

They kill two men on the British side, several more with arm wounds Laurens sees at their distance. Yet, his eyes draw to the cannon more, the crates of rifles, the men with spade and shovel beginning to dig into the earth so very near their headquarters and city. 

Several groups of the British attempt to advance closer and reestablish their line, perhaps to add more yards to the distance of the British entrenchment. Laurens, however, keeps his battalion in place and increases their fire at any enemy advance.

“Hold!” Laurens shouts, riding back and forth. “Reform, three lines. Fire!”

They wound several more enemy men, his own troops performing well and standing their ground so the British are forced back to their original position. 

As sundown nears, Laurens gradually moves his men back toward the American barricade. He may be bold but nor is he ignorant of enemy strength and advantage. He additionally has his orders to obey.

The land side fortifications along the neck before Charles Town consist of an extensive, thick brick wall and a canal in front of it. The canal guards against easy foot siege and the walls are built some six feet high with cannon and men at arms. The British now dig their trenches to bombard the wall with heavy cannon and artillery. It is to be expected but still a disadvantage for the American side with the walls themselves needing reinforcement and repair even before the British begin their assault.

When his battalion falls back behind the wall, Laurens returns to headquarters. He meets General Lincoln and General Hogun in an upstairs office.

“The British have begun construction of their first parallel entrenchment,” Laurens informs them. “We kept them from advancing further but they have many guns and supplies.”

“How far?” General Lincoln asks.

“Less than two miles for their camp. Only eight hundred yards for the entrenchment.”

“We have seven enemy ships outside the bay now,” General Hogan says half to Lincoln and half to Laurens. “Three are deckers, two transports.”

“Both sides,” Lincoln whispers. 

“It may be prudent to scuttle ships in the bay to –”

“Not yet.”

“Sir.”

Lincoln then looks up at the two men. “At first light begin attack on their construction but be sparing. Out supply lines may remain now but we have no guarantee as to how long.”

“Yes, General,” General Hogun replies, turning to his aide-de-camp.

“The ships remain outside the bay?” Laurens asks.

General Lincoln makes a displeased noise. “For now, and I imagine Clinton and Cornwallis will bring up more troop by land behind their battery.” Lincoln sighs. “We must finish construction and repair of our own land and water barricades. Order the engineer core to send out fatigue parties as needed for the bay barricades, defensive wall and the canal.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurens replies as he turns away, off to find Duportail and Ternant. 

The siege of Charles Town has begun.

 **Day 109**  
Hamilton walks through Morristown with Eliza at his side. Her uncle and aunt walk leisurely ahead of them. The Cochrans need to visit the tailor, and Hamilton offered to join them for a short walk before he must return to headquarters.

“You have said nothing to them yet?” Hamilton asks, his voice low.

“Certainly not. I am restrained enough to wait for what word you may receive from my honored parents.” Her eyes tick up to him, a smile pulling at her lips. “Do you ask me such in seriousness?”

“No, I do not,” Hamilton replies with a wink. “Perhaps I only put my own desires upon you.”

“You have done such already.”

Hamilton feels a surge of want flow through him and he cannot stop his hand straying over hers, even here in public. Her finger tips press against his palm and he wishes so very much to kiss her.

Instead he says, “I speak of a desire to tell all of our future, of what we may hopefully be together.”

Eliza smile and nods. “I understand this. I am happy enough to have it in my heart.”

“Perhaps your heart is stronger than mine to hold it in. I wish more to let it fly forth into the air, to shout it from every pulpit, to knock upon every door and declare Miss Elizabeth Schuyler to be my future wife.”

Eliza laughs once quietly as she slides her hand up to take the crook of his arm. “You make me near dizzy with your words, Alexander.”

Hamilton breathes in deeply, lets the sound of his name on her lips echo in his ears and roll through his thoughts, his eyes closing. He wants to hear her say it again and again, say it in welcome at a return home, say in surprise at his wit or attentions, to say it with passion in their marriage bed.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton?”

Hamilton’s eyes snap open to see Gibbs standing in his path. “Major Gibbs.”

Gibbs nods a greeting to Eliza then turns back to Hamilton. “I am afraid I must call you back to His Excellency’s office.” Gibbs glances behind himself to where Eliza’s uncle and aunt have stopped to watch. “As long as the lady is still accompanied?”

“I am well, sir,” Eliza replies.

Gibbs nods then takes a step back so Hamilton may say his farewells. Eliza raises her eyebrows at Hamilton but does not look put out. 

Hamilton sighs and merely squeezes her hands in his. “Until another lovely afternoon.”

“Or evening,” she replies.

Hamilton smiles at her and bows over her hands. Then he turns and follows Gibbs back in the direction of Ford Mansion.

Hamilton spends several hours with Gibbs dealing with finances. It is not just those of their own office but the army as a whole. The Quarter Master’s office is lacking much of the supplies needed throughout the army and the Continental dollar lies in a poor state. They recently learned of British clandestine efforts to print false Continental dollars in an attempt to devalue its worth and disrupt their economy. The American side cannot rely on British currency, yet their own is often refused by civilian business as worthless in the face of hard currency. Thus, efforts to acquire supplies often become circumvented by the issue of inadequate or false payment.

“We are in a better state than earlier this year,” Gibbs says as he and Hamilton leave their last inspection of supplies in Jockey Hollow where the troops encamp. “Much of the false currency has been removed from circulation.”

“Yet our true currency still remains at too low a value.”

“Yes,” Gibbs confirms, closing his ledger. “It would be better to have more ready silver at hand.”

“It would better to boost our own dollar and ensure its worth.”

“This does not happen by pure will.” Gibbs gives him a look. “We must pay troops to keep them, and you know the lack of public confidence in our fight after so long at war.”

“This does not mean we stop fighting or working to keep our own currency.”

“Do not preach to me, Hamilton. I fight with you here.” Gibbs passes his ledger off to one of his Lieutenants. “Yet our position now is as precarious as any time in the war, only troop enough to keep us in a balanced state with the British in New York.”

“And what of the south?” Hamilton asks. “We have sent the Virginia line.”

Gibbs makes a dismissive noise. “Some as we could spare and that had ready supplies. Were we to send more I cannot say if we would have the proper munitions ready to send with them.”

Hamilton wants to curse. “The battle is not only in the north.”

“The south with hold strong. The British have been slow moving there.”

“What do you call Savannah?”

Gibbs shakes his head as they reach the edge of camp where their horses wait tethered. “I cannot speak on this. I worry of the General’s person and the money we need.”

“And the money is used for such as troops and supplies and what should be needed most where.”

“Then write to Laurens and have him ask his father to give his wealth to the cause,” Gibbs says as he steps up onto a waiting block to mouth his horse. “If such important men in the south wish to keep their cities then they should take the money of their plantations to help it.”

Hamilton looks up at Gibbs. “You sound as pessimistic as I in this moment.”

Gibbs frowns. “I have been working at money matters all day. It makes one sour.”

Hamilton mounts his horse beside Gibbs and thinks on some of the truth of his words. Private wealth may be lost just as easily in the war through British seizure or destruction of battle. Why not use their money to protect such? It is not commonly done but Hamilton thinks it fair.

Back at headquarters, Hamilton encounters General Washington in the hall. “Your Excellency, have we had word of the state of Charles Town?”

General Washington gestures to the aide-de-camp office. “I have had a letter from Colonel Laurens, of the fourteenth, requesting our aid once more. It seems an attack imminent.”

“And he must speak truthfully. The garrison at Charles Town should not be sufficient and even those men sent may still not be enough to sustain the city if word of British troop leaving New York is true.”

“Yes, but we cannot spare more men now.” General Washington looks away. “Laurens writes even of myself joining the force south.”

“Would you?” Hamilton asks, keeping any hope or hesitancy from his voice.

General Washington looks back at Hamilton with a rueful smile. “I think Congress more desirous of myself where they think me within reach than even upon a field of battle at present.”

Hamilton stares at him. He remembers His Excellency upon the field, sword in hand, where he is best. “But perhaps they are wrong.”

“And yet I must listen as they direct.”

“You are the commander of the army,” Hamilton says. “Charles Town will soon be under siege.”

“Would you not wish a civilian government still in place, still dictating the course of this war and needs of the country? I know their faults, but we must keep this balance of Congress and the army or else a good country should never form after the war’s end. I would not make the army dictator to the people. You know this, Hamilton.”

Hamilton feels forlorn. “I do, sir.”

General Washington nods again then turns back toward his own office. Hamilton glances at the door to the aide-de-camp office, closed now before him. Instead, Hamilton ascends the stairs. He finds a room to himself – a room where Laurens laid beside him for a few precious days alone after arguments and apologies, before Laurens chose duty once more. He finds paper and pen to vent his frustrations, to tell of his worries of Laurens’ quarter in the south and what the north may offer.

Hamilton writes,

_Adieu my Dear; I am sure you will exert yourself to save your country; but do not unnecessarily risk one of its most valuable sons. Take as much care of yourself as you ought for the public sake and for the sake of_

_Yr. affectionate._

**Day 119**  
“The British have brought fourteen ships into the harbor past Fort Moultrie,” Laurens says as he enters the room of Generals and Colonels after his ride from the peninsula. He stops beside the table and points on the map. “Here.”

“The Boom chain at the mouth of the Cooper River should keep them from sailing any further around the city,” one Colonel says far down the table.

“I did not scuttle my ships there for naught,” Commander Whipple of the navy remarks tersely.

General Moultire puts some letters down on the table. “Word from Monck's Corner sounds though it may not withstand British assault much longer.” He also points on the map, dragging his hand into the backwoods. “We lose this point and we shall lose our supply line.”

“And what of the defensive wall?” General Lincoln asks. “They shell us daily and the engineers must keep pace.”

“They destroy these beyond what we may build back up in haste,” Duportail retorts. “But we do the same to them.”

“And yet they have more men to rebuild faster than we,” General Lincoln replies and waves a hand when Duportail opens his mouth to object. “I am aware of this, I do not rebuke. It is what we have.”

“Sirs?” A knock comes at the door. 

Laurens turns to see his secretary William Jackson. Laurens marches over and takes the piece of paper Jackson holds out. It is a letter of introduction, of sorts.

Laurens turns around with a grin. “General Woodford and the Virginia line have arrived.”

Several sounds of relief and joy ripple around the room. 

General Lincoln turns to face Laurens, his expression still one of concern. “How many?”

Laurens looks to Jackson. Jackson clears his throat. “More than seven hundred, sir.”

“That is all?” General Lincoln asks.

Jackson clears his throat again awkwardly, looking from the General to Laurens. Laurens hands the letter back to Jackson, who bows out of the room. The letter said nothing of any additional reinforcements to follow.

“They should not be enough,” General Hogan says low as the door closes behind Jackson.

“I am aware of our needs, General,” General Lincoln replies, his voice flat.

General Moultrie clears his throat. “Monck's Corner?”

“Yes,” Lincoln says. “Send a regiment there. The rest are needed on the city barricades. I want as many with guns as without. If our fortifications fall, so do we.”

“Yes, sir,” Several Colonel’s around the room reply.

“Colonels Miller, Laurens and Walsh, see to the distribution of the Virginia men,” General Lincoln orders.

The three Colonels nod their acceptance then exit the office at once, their boots loud on the wood floor. Jackson waits for them on the other side of the door. He hurries into step beside Laurens, leading the pack.

“The letter mentioned detachments,” Laurens asks Jackson as they walk. “Is it not the whole of the Virginia force?” 

“No, sir, two detachments.”

“Detachments now?” Miller asks, scratching at the line of stubble on his face. “Are we not given whole regiments?”

“The Virginia line is much depleted,” Jackson explains. “They have formed detachments out of lesser regiments. These are from the 1st and 2nd regiments, though the 1st regiment absorbed the 9th and…”

“Woodford told you all this?” Walsh asks in disbelief.

“It does not matter which regiment or what detachment it be now,” Laurens snaps as they tromp down the steps and to the main door. “We must make use of them whomever they may be or however few there are.” 

“I shall to the bayside barricades to find their need,” Walsh says, turning away toward the stables as they exit headquarters.

“Jackson,” Laurens says, “Report back to Woodford and have him divide up the men he has, those for active engagement and those for Fatigue, giving the latter more.”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson near trips over his own feet as he rushes across the courtyard.

“And?” Miller asks Laurens.

“I shall to the land side wall. Are you able to ride to Monck’s Corner and ask General Huger their need?”

“He should ask for them all.”

Laurens shakes his head. “Just as the engineers will when I ask. Make him more reasonable.”

Miller snorts once and claps Laurens on the shoulder. “Huzzah.”

Laurens makes his way out to defensive wall near their headquarter building, the wall built up taller now and the enemy parallels within sight over the ground. The canal still remains high with water though Laurens fears the British may attempt to drain it as the siege lingers on.

Laurens sees men attempting work, reinforcing holes in the brick, adding wood as additional support around the base of the walls, over eight feet high here, half a dozen men working to move crates of cannon balls. Artillery fire and cannon blasts come from the British sides. Most single man fire is at too far a distance to cause harm. Yet if any man on repair outside of the barricades should stray too far into the middle ground the gunshots go off in warning or disruption regardless. 

“Laurens!”

Laurens marches up to Ternant where he works beside a cannon. Ternant and two other men shove the cannon slowly back from its position at a gap in the wall, Ternat’s coat off and sleeves rolled up. One of the other men holds a sponge in one hand while another holds a bucket of water. 

Ternant reaches his arm deep into the muzzle as he speaks to Laurens. “We are in need of more gunpowder and cannon balls. Can we requisition some from the port fortifications? The wall is more in need, I should think.”

“Ternant, I am not at present –”

“Fort Moultrie defends the bay well enough now, so the water barricades do not need –”

“The British have sailed in past the Fort.”

Ternant pulls his arm out of the muzzle, black now up to his elbow with powder. “What?”

“Yes, but I am here about men.”

Ternant sighs heavily, looking down the wall toward where another group of men work to haul a new batch of bricks. “I cannot spare any off repairs. With the rain we have had –”

A cannon blast shakes the ground and booms through the air around them. Laurens hears several men shout but he notices no impact, at least not near to them along the wall. A pair of men run past them toward the western half of the wall.

“With the rain…” Ternant attempts to continue as he reaches back into the cannon muzzle.

“No,” Laurens insists, hoping up so he stands up on a crate of cannon balls and into Ternant’s eye line. Ternant looks up in surprise, finally giving Laurens his full attention. “I mean to give you men, not take.”

“Give me?”

“Our Virginia troops have arrived.”

Ternant’s expression changes so quickly into one of intense joy Laurens fears for the stability of his jaw. “Oh, praise be, you speak truthfully? How many?”

“Less than you should desire but Lincoln has ordered them split among our areas of need and I think here most so.”

“Indeed.”

Laurens looks down over the top of the wall, gazing out over the open ground. He sees spent cannon balls fallen short from either side, ruts in the earth, a broken wagon nearer their side which enemy fire must have scored a hit upon. 

Laurens looks back down at Ternant. “We have some seven hundred men; how many should you argue for?”

Laurens hears another cannon blast break the air. The noise sounds closer this time, more central where they stand than the westerly or eastern edges. Ternant opens his mouth, his eyes widening in alarm. 

Then someone shouts, “Laurens!”

Arms grab Laurens about the middle and yank him backward. Laurens hits the stone on his back with someone laid over him. Two seconds later a hit smashes through the wall making Laurens’ ears ring. Small bits of brick and dust rain around him. Laurens hears the cracking sound of breaking wood and men shouting. 

A voice cries, “Return fire!” 

“No, no, not this, it is clogged, the next one!” Ternant shouts.

Laurens opens his eyes again, sees feet running to his right and hears the wheels of a cannon moving forward. He smells the smoke as their cannon blasts in reply. Laurens sees a collapsed portion of the wall ahead of him, a deep slice nearly all the way to the base from the top. 

Then the man laid over Laurens pulls himself up onto his hands above Laurens. “John.”

Laurens looks up into the face of Francis Kinloch. “Frank.”

Laurens has seen Kinloch only once, since Kinloch learned the error of his loyalist views and joined the patriot side in the war, a few years back in New England when Laurens was sent on assignment, and then only briefly. Prior to this, it had been many years and in Geneva when they last laid eyes – and hands and more – upon each other.

Kinloch grins down at Laurens, he coughs once to the side then turns back. “What should you be doing on such an elevation when the cannons are in action?” Kinloch looks round, back to Laurens again then gestures with his head toward the newly made hole. “That would have been you.”

“I heard it,” Laurens says weakly, unable to conger a better excuse with Kinloch still laid atop him.

Kinloch smiles still, his expression playful. “And yet you stood upon a crate to begin with, why with you so tall…” He tuts. “I think you asking for a fight with a cannon ball and one you would have lost.”

“I did no such thing.”

Kinloch chuckles, his hands shifting on the stone, so they feel closer to the sides of Laurens’ face. “Even so, I think you lucky to have me on duty here to ensure you still retain your head.”

“I might retain it better were I standing once more.”

Kinloch dips his head down to look between their prone bodies. Then he whips it back up again. “Just so.” 

Kinloch shifts up, rocks back onto his heels and bounces up above Laurens, feet on either side of Laurens’ legs. He holds out his hands and Laurens takes both of them. Kinloch pulls hard and Laurens near jumps himself back up to standing, almost touching Kinloch’s chest. Kinloch smirks then lets go of Laurens’ hands. He glances up at Laurens’ head then makes a ‘hmm’ noise. He looks around them, bending down to pick up their fallen hats. Laurens breathes in deeply and takes a step backward.

“There,” Kinloch rights himself and holds Laurens’ hat out to him as he places his own jauntily on his head.

Laurens takes his hat with a nod. “Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.” Kinloch points a finger as he fixes the placement of his own hat. “And not just for the hat.”

“Ahem.”

Laurens turns to Ternant standing near them at his sound. Ternant raises his eyebrows at Laurens, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Ah, Kinloch.” Kinloch looks where Laurens gestures to the Frenchman. “May I introduce Jean Baptiste Ternant, a member of our engineer corps and a friend.” Laurens gestures in reverse. “Ternant, Francis Kinloch.”

Kinloch bows once. “A pleasure. And you are uninjured yourself?”

Ternant shakes his head. “Quite well.”

Kinloch nods. “Then even better to have met you. Well, I had best press on now that I need not stop in fear of any more friends losing their person to British cannon.” He turns his head to Laurens, pats the palm of his hand against Laurens’ chest once. “Laurens, good to see you here fighting with us in the south.”

“Kinloch.”

Kinloch smiles fetchingly, a flutter of his fingers as he pulls away to walk toward headquarters – back straight and his coat whipping about his hips. Laurens blows a breath out of his nose.

“You and Kinloch were… close?” Ternant asks, having moved close beside Laurens, his voice low and without mistake to Laurens’ ears.

“Mhmm,” Laurens replies still watching where Kinloch retreats.

Ternant makes an appreciative noise. “Recently?”

“No, at school in Geneva.”

“Of course.”

Laurens glances at Ternant. Ternant only smirks. “When the cat’s away…”

Laurens frowns. “Am I the cat or Hamilton?”

Ternant shrugs. “I merely suggest....” Ternant glances where Kinloch went.

Laurens scoffs then cuffs Ternant’s cheek. “Enough. Would take such advice yourself?”

“I might. I have no obligation of affection as you.” Then Ternant shoves Lauren’s hand away. “And that man –”

“No.” Laurens holds up a finger. “You are done.”

Ternant raises both hands in supplication. “I hear. I desist.” Ternant’s lips twist. “But he did only now save your life.”

Laurens frowns. “He did not save me.”

“A cannon ball should say otherwise.”

“I may duck well on my own, and would have.”

Tenant nods mockingly in agreement. “Mmhmm.”

Laurens narrows his eyes and holds up a finger again. “What did I say to you?”

Ternant grins. “I desist.”

“Yes, you do.” Laurens breathes in deeply and pushes his shoulders back. “Now, men, how many should you wish for? I will argue for as many as I am able.”

Ternant sighs. “I would ask for all seven hundred if I could for the whole of this wall. We also require more men on cannon, those who know better how to clean between shots.” Ternant smacks the rear of the cannon he worked on prior to the enemy hit. “And you see how much we must repair day in and day out.”

“Yes,” Laurens looks at the spot where he once stood, a cut as if from a knife in that portion of the wall, men attempting to patch it even now. He sees the British parallels through the gap, the sounds of cannon still firing along the line, and more men behind their fortifications then on the Continental side. “I do indeed.”

 **Day 122**  
Gibbs puts the letter into Hamilton’s hand as part of the morning correspondence, another stack to Harrison and a personal letter to Meade before he moves swiftly out of the room again with particular letters for His Excellency. Harrison starts saying something about regimental exchanges; Tilghman asks about various marching orders he writes, “one for South Carolina I am pleased to see;” McHenry remarks on a furlough request. Hamilton, however, sits tall and still, his eyes fixed upon the direction from which the letter in his hand has arrived.

“Hamilton?” Meade puts his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder making Hamilton breathe in deeply. “Are you well?”

“My letter is from Philip Schuyler.”

Tilghman and McHenry turn their heads toward Hamilton.

Meade chuckles. “A matter of Congress?”

“I should hope not,” Hamilton says as he cracks open the wax seal.

“What else should you wish?” McHenry asks, then his eyes widen. “It cannot be –”

“It can,” Tilghman interrupts, swiveling around in his chair and flipping up the ends of his coat. “And I suspect it a joyous response.”

“And how should you know?” McHenry asks. “Are you closely acquainted with General Schuyler? He could have any manner of requirements in mind.”

“I am acquainted with Hamilton.” Tilghman points at Hamilton while giving McHenry a raise of his eyebrows. “And I have seen the expression of his face and distraction of his mind these past months. I can expect only one outcome.”

McHenry huffs. “And that should ensure the father’s permission? Hamilton’s desire and your opinion?”

“It is the mother,” Harrison says.

“What?” Tilghman, McHenry and Meade all chorus.

Harrison looks up from his papers. “In the tradition of Dutch culture, as the Schuylers are of, the mother must give her consent for her daughter to marry.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says.

The men all turn to Hamilton once more. Meade leans over Hamilton’s shoulder. “Yes, as in, ‘yes?’”

Hamilton beams up at Meade, the letter grasped in his hands, the very first sentences answering all his questions, granting him all his wants. “Yes,” Hamilton says, “they both say yes.”

The room breaks into sounds of ‘huzzah,’ and ‘congratulations.’ Tilghman claps his hands together once and points at McHenry, “as I said.” Meade squeezes Hamilton’s shoulders with both hands. The door to the office opens again, Gibbs entering with question about the noise. Tilghman jumps up even as Harrison tries to explain, the good news spreading.

Hamilton stands up from his seat, the letter in hand. There is more to read, matters of the war and family – soon to be his family. He hoped fervently for his proposal to be accepted; nay, he expected it would be due to the warmth of her family and her own wishes on the matter. Yet he still feels surprise, relief, breathless with utter happiness and the knowledge that she – Elizabeth, Eliza, Betsy – shall be his wife.

“I hope I shall be as lucky as you soon with my own lady,” Meade says quietly to Hamilton.

“Your own lady, sir?” Hamilton asks. Meade has spoken very little of his correspondence with a certain woman this year.

“Miss Randolph. I am quite ready to have her make me a married man once more, but I have yet to,” Meade makes a rueful expression. “Ask.”

Hamilton grins at Meade, looks down at his letter then back up to Meade. “Then ask, my friend.”

“And have my face look as unabashedly ecstatic as yours? Oh, I should fear such embarrassment.”

Hamilton laughs. “I am glad of it, I welcome it.” Hamilton makes a high noise. He rather wants to cheer. “I cannot be bashful now! Why, do you see?” He shakes the letter in his hand. “It is so, I am accepted!”

“She accepted you earlier. I should think you happier then,” McHenry remarks, Gibbs near wrapped around his shoulders.

“Says the man as yet unmarried.”

“Gibbs!”

Hamilton laughs again and grins such he thinks his lips like to break his face he smiles so wide. “Jest as you will but she accepted me and her parents have approved. I am a taken man, my friends.” Hamilton spreads his arms wide. “Engaged to be married!”

“You were ‘taken’ months past,” Tilghman says as he crosses to the side bar to pour a glass of wine. “This merely finishes the affair.”

“It should finish when they are married,” Harrison corrects.

Tilghman just waves a hand at Harrison. He crosses around the table near the fire and over to Hamilton. He holds out the wine for Hamilton. “Congratulations.”

Hamilton takes the glass and drinks down the wine in one gulp. “I could not be happier were my lady here among us.”

“Were she here we might need to censure our congratulations some,” Gibbs remarks.

“How else might you congratulate the man?” Tilghman asks with a suspicious glance.

Gibbs scoffs. “I only mean you lot to be loud and raucous gentlemen.”

“Less loud is easy,” Harrison says holding up a finger with his look of the father upon his face.

“Raucous?” McHenry says in indignation.

“Be as much of either as you please!” Hamilton exclaims, gesturing with his empty glass and casing some droplets of wine to spray the papers on his table. “I welcome all happiness this day as I feel the very most of it!”

Tilghman and Meade chuckle together. Hamilton turns his head left and right, so he may smile at both of them in turn. He feels much as if he could smile and grin at any person who should enter the room, tell any stranger who passes that he now possesses the hand of Elizabeth Schuyler.

He glances down at the letter once more then gasps. “Ah! I must reply to him at once!”

“And to your lady,” Gibbs reminds him as he takes the empty glass away from Hamilton.

“Or simply ride to see her,” Tilghman says.

“Oh, yes!” Meade adds, clutching Hamilton’s arm. “No doubt word from your own lips would woo her all the more.”

“He already has her,” Tilghman says as he walks back toward his chair.

“And he is not excused from his work either,” Harrison interrupts. “Matters of our prisoner exchange are as yet unfinished.”

Gibbs and Tilghman make disapproving noises toward Harrison while McHenry attempts to support Harrison’s side. 

Hamilton watches them, his hands tingling with excitement, his face fixed in a smile and his thoughts of Eliza’s face before him. He sees her smile, her dark eyes, feels the way her hand should be certain to hold his tight when he tells her the news, when he will soon be able to call her wife, when he may greet her every day, hold her tight and close and say, ‘Mrs. Hamilton.’ Hamilton wants to run out the door now straight to her side. If not for her father’s wishes and the propriety involved, he should wed her this very day.

“You may see her soon,” Meade says, still standing near Hamilton. “The evening shall come in time.”

“Not quickly enough.”

Meade chuckles. “I understand your fervor.”

Hamilton nods as his eyes trace over the words, approval from Eliza’s mother and father, their desire to see he and Eliza wed in person. “It is a blessing I cannot express in glad enough terms.”

“And yet you must still write it.”

Hamilton glances up. “General Schuyler travels to headquarters soon, he writes, and we may discuss all in person.” Hamilton’s lips twist as he reads more of the letter. “My future father-in-law.”

“And to Laurens.” Hamilton twitches and looks sharply at Meade. Meade nods and claps Hamilton’s shoulder. “He should be disappointed to not be able congratulate you in person today.”

“Yes...” Hamilton blows out a puff of air and looks at the letter once more, the words blurring. “Yes, he should.”

 **Day 126**  
Hamilton sits in the parlor with Eliza, sun streaming through the widows at their back. A table set with tea sits before them. Eliza’s aunt stepped out of the room some minutes before when called by a servant. They hear her speaking out in the hall.

“That should be you soon,” Hamilton says, his hands curled around his cup. “The mistress of the house.”

She chuckles quietly. “So many matters of accounts or guests to manage.”

“Formal dinners to arrange when General Washington might visit.”

She takes a sip of her tea. “Or members of your law firm.”

Hamilton smiles. “You think I back at my own practice?”

“What should you think?”

Hamilton tilts his head, tapping his nails on the edge of his teacup. “I think law would serve me well once more, would bring us a good annual sum. But I am also find myself called to government in our new country.”

Eliza smiles wide. “I had thought you to say as much.”

“A New York representative to Congress perhaps?”

She nods. “Just so and I waiting at home for you each night.” She takes a deep breath. “With our children.”

Hamilton hangs on the word, the plural, ‘children.’ “How many should we have?” He asks. “Ten?”

She laughs. “That is quite a brood.”

“Less do you think? I should not wish to tax your health so.”

Eliza sips her tea, her face quiet and contemplative. “I should be glad to have as many of your children as God would see fit to bless us with.” She looks at him over the edge of her cup. “Boys and girls.”

“Yes.”

“A house in town, or just outside?”

Hamilton smiles more, imagines their house – Eliza in the hall taking his coat, two boys running around their legs, a baby girl in the nurse maid’s arms, a dog in their rear garden, wine on the dining table, Gibbs visiting with laughter, Harrison attending with discussions of law and Laurens… 

Hamilton pauses in his idyllic musings, Laurens’ face alone before him. He thinks of a house nearby, Laurens in ownership, his own law firm in the city, a frequent visitor to Hamilton’s house, companionable with his wife. They must certainly be agreeable to each other, both witty and passionate and honest. Laurens who Hamilton may simply walk down the street, ring the bell and step inside his neighboring house to find – arms around him, deep kisses and pleasurable afternoons in Laurens’ embrace. His Laurens to kiss, his wife to sleep beside; his happy home and children and his dearest man and affection. 

“I think a large house, with neighbors and friends to have around us.” Hamilton smiles. “And you, my love, at the center.”

And Laurens just where Hamilton may reach him. Both at hand. Both the people he wants in his life, both he desires, and both he can have.

 **Day 130**  
“You must remove yourself from the city,” Laurens insists.

“And how would you suggest I do so?” H. Laurens replies as he moves about his study.

“It cannot be impossible. The British have their entrenchments on the land side and blockade the bay but we have our own obstructions along the Cowper River, there is a gap –”

“And you should think this enough?”

“There may yet be a way, as a civilian –”

“The British siege the entire city, not just the military portion, John.” H. Laurens picks up a letter, reading a line then looking up at Laurens again. “And I may not be simply a civilian in their eyes.”

“Congress are still civilians,” Laurens insists, taking a step closer. “You must be allowed passage. We can move you at night, in secret if we must!”

“You want what cannot be, John.”

“I want your safety!”

“I chose to stay, with Charles Town, with you.”

“Father…”

H. Laurens puts the letter down on his desk and steps closer to Laurens. He grips both of Laurens’ arms and squeezes. “I have no escape, just as you know. I shall suffer the same fate of this city, and it is likely civilians will be given safe passage out if the city should fall.”

Much of Laurens wants to correct his father, to say ‘when’ instead of ‘if,’ even as he maintains his own desire to hold the line and withstand the siege.

“Mepkin then,” Laurens asks. “Retreat to Mepkin. As I said of the Cowper, our obstruction remains, you could leave by boat. It is the right direction, you should be able to make Mepkin if you insist upon remaining in the South Carolina.”

His father drops his hands again. “This is still the same as you have asked, my removal from the city.”

“Yes, I ask that. You are correct in what you say, Congress would not simply be seen as civilians. Our supply line is cut off, the city surrounded. We hold out for now but you know as well as I the trial we face. You should…” Laurens blows out a breath. He, wants to argue, to shout at his father to flee because despite how hard Laurens wants to fight – how hard he will fight – he sees their loss on the horizon. He cannot watch his father captured, used as a prize of the British army. “They will want a captive such as you, one of such importance.”

H. Laurens looks away toward one window, the sounds of bombardment distant but audible to them both.

“Father, please.”

“I will do as you ask.” H. Laurens looks back to Laurens again. He smiles. “You speak some truth and there is little more I can do here at present.”

“Thank you,” Laurens says, relief evident in his tone.

“No, I thank you for your concern to my safety. I fear the same, if not more for you.” His father touches Laurens’ arm again briefly. His expression is mostly masked, as it always is, but Laurens sees the hint of his fear. Then he turns away back to his desk. “I must make preparations.”

“I will see to an escort for you,” Laurens says.

Laurens then turns and exits the room. He grabs his hat at the front door, options and escapes running through his head; at least he should be able to save his father now. As he exits the house, he feels glad for the first time since his arrival that Hamilton was unable to follow him here.

 **Day 148**  
“Fort Moultrie has surrendered,” General Moultrie insists with all the aggravation of a namesake. “How much longer should we hold the bay?”

“We will not, that is the truth,” his aide-de-camp adds.

“The addition of the Virginia troops…” General Hogun begins but General Woodford cuts him off.

“I brought seven hundred men which was not enough, I know this as well as you.”

“We attempted an attack on their first parallel,” Duportail says, pointing to the map of Charles Town on the table around which they stand. “Even this small victory was not enough and our own walls fare worse each day under their cannon.”

“If we hold out for General Washington,” Laurens tries, “hope might remain.”

“Hope as he gave you in his letter of March?” General Lincoln says quietly as he looks up at Laurens. “He said he could not come.”

Laurens shakes his head. “That was then.”

“‘Then’ helps us none now,” General Lincoln says, finality to his tone. “We have lost our line of supply and communication. None in the north can help us. I have asked the British for the option of our retreat from the city but General Clinton will not accept this.”

“The city not a prize enough?” General Pinckney snaps. “They mean to denigrate us!”

“And what else might we do against them? They have advanced and surrounded us,” General Moultrie insists.

“They expect our surrender but if we hold longer, continue our defense, we do not know what reinforcements might still arrive!” Laurens insists just as ardently.

“You hope for what will not come,” General Woodford says flatly.

Laurens waves a hand. “You do not know this!”

General Woodford gives Laurens a hard look. “I do.”

“Better to surrender with our lives,” Duportail retorts.

“And what good should our lives be under British capture?” Laurens fires back.

“We know what you might think of throwing away lives uselessly, but a solider adds nothing dead!” Another Colonel accuses Laurens.

Laurens turns sharply, leaning forward with his feeling. “I would rather us fight for what is ours!”

“And what would you call our months under siege now?” Someone calls from nearer the back of the large assembled group.

“Enough argument,” General Lincoln says, some weariness in his tone. “I would hear final opinions, whom among us would wish to continue our resistance?”

Laurens raises his hand instantly. He glances around the room and sees few others with him. 

General Lincoln nods. “And against such?”

Most of the Generals and Colonel’s raise their hands or call ‘aye,’ about the room. Lincoln’s eyes circle around. He glances to his aide-de-camp.

“Only eleven of sixty-three in favor of continued fight,” the man replies as he picks up a piece paper on which Laurens spies tally marks.

Laurens grits his teeth and stares down at the table. He wants to scream, to curse every man here. His eyes burn with angry tears at the mere thought of his city taken under British gun and boot, taken because they may surrender it.

A knock comes sharply at the door. Laurens turns to see Ternant shove his head through the door, huffing. “The British are firing heated shells.” He takes a deep breath. “Several buildings are aflame.”

“Muster men to put out the fires,” General Lincoln says at once. He snaps and points his finger toward the door, looking at Laurens and a Colonel Brant. “Now!”

Laurens turns, Brant with him, and they hurry after Ternant. 

Laurens hears Lincoln continue behind him, “General Woodford, your men must attempt to destroy…,” until they reach the base of the stairs.

“Fire buckets!” Ternant shouts as they exit the building into the courtyard. “All men, fire buckets!”

The men from various regiments around them all snap into action, some grabbing specific fire buckets while others appear to seize any serviceable pot or pail which may be used. 

“You three,” Laurens says, pointing at a set of Corporals. “To the pump.” He knows a water pump lies on the far side of the courtyard. 

“Form to me!” Brant says, leading men to the fire pump as Laurens and Ternant hurry on.

“How far are the fires?” Laurens asks.

“Just outside,” Ternant responds as they run, men flocking behind them.

The soldiers quickly make their way out into the streets. Laurens hears shouting, civilians rushing by, some carrying water toward the fire Laurens now sees. More run in the opposite direction, several into the walls of army headquarters.

“There!” Laruen’s shouts, pointing to one building with crackling curtains flapping in the wind out of broken windows. A whooshing sound of flame comes from the windows, a glow to be seen inside. A shell must have stuck the house directly. 

Laurens grabs a bucket full of water from a man standing in the street, staring up at the house. Another pair of men stop beside Laurens, buckets in their hands.

“Inside,” Laurens says, “the fire is upstairs.”

Laurens props his bucket up against the wall of the house with one hand so he may open the door with the other. He hurries into the hall and straight up the stairs, the two men behind him. He hears what sounds like a scream but he cannot tell from where. As he reaches the second floor, smoke stings his eyes and he dips his head, coughing against his chest. He follows the sound of the fire until he finds broken wood, a chair in pieces, glass on the floor and fire high up the walls.

“Go, go,” Laurens says as he throws the water in his bucket at the base of the wall.

One of the other men pours his bucket onto the smoldering remains of the shell just inside the window. The third man heaves his water against the burning wall. Most of the fire turns to smoke, near blinding Laurens. He stamps his foot down on sparks and small chunks of burning wood.

“Behind, there!” One of the men says.

“I see.”

The wall they just put out suddenly creaks and several burnt boards fall out toward them. Laurens jumps back, grasping one man by the arm to pull him too. Hot wood hits Laurens’ hand so he hisses and knocks back into the opposite wall. The man beside him twists away, stumbling over rubble on the floor.

“Careful, Richard!” The second man cries.

Ash and dust fill the space from the broken wood forcing Laurens to put an arm up over his eyes. Laurens blinks away tears until he may open his eyes properly. He sees more black scorch marks surrounded by green wallpaper. On the floor a pair of chairs are burnt near beyond recognition and a hole has formed in the wall into the master bedroom.

“Colonel Laurens!” Someone shouts from outside.

“Go,” Laurens says to the two men, pushing one in the shoulder.

They retreat back down the stairs, enough of the fire extinguished behind them to save the house.

Laurens coughs again, stumbling for a moment down the stairs through the smoke. He recovers quickly as his feet reach the ground floor. He exits the house back onto the street to see men in a line, passing a bucket toward another house further down the street. Laurens sees Ternant near the head of the line.

Ternant catches Laurens’ eyes. “Laurens!”

Laurens runs down the line of soldiers, following a fresh bucket of water until it reaches Ternant’s hands. Laurens sees the one house in front of Ternant burning from all sides, bricks turned black and the heat oppressive even from yards away.

“Two shells hit this one,” Ternant says. “I do not think it able to be saved.” He throws the water from the bucket on the neighboring house where flames have just begun to spread. 

“We cannot let it burn!”

Ternant passes the bucket back down the line as another man near him throws more on the second house. “We have no choice.”

Laurens stares up at the house. He knows this building. The parlor within bears blue walls, fine crown molding around the ceiling and beautiful paintings of the Cowper and Ashley rivers. 

Laurens visited here several times in his youth, before his mother died, when she thought perhaps a marriageable connection between their families might one day be arranged; Laurens knows such now that he was ignorant of at the time. On the first occasion, he remembers sitting stiffly in a chair, counting the diamonds in the blue paper on the walls. The daughter had hair as blond as his own, pearl earrings and drank two cups of tea. He liked how she talked about the family horses; he had wanted to leave the parlor to see the horses instead. He also remembers her older brother had pale brown eyes and heart shaped lips.

“Come, Laurens,” Ternant cries, taking the empty bucket from Laurens’ hands and passing it back down the line. He then shoves a heavy bucket into Laurens’ arms, some of the water spilling over Laurens’ waistcoat. “To the other neighbor!” Ternant insists.

Laurens grasps the sides of the bucket, the blue parlor house burning hotter and brighter, the paint on the front door beginning to peel. Then Laurens turns and rushes to the house on the opposite side. 

“With me!” He cries to a cluster of men arriving with buckets.

They pour water on the building, reaching in high arcs. Laurens turns back with his empty bucket in time to hear the sound of another shot break the air. Half the men around Laurens duck instinctively, buckets clattering on the cobblestone. Laurens, however, looks up to see where it lands. Three buildings away, brick and flaming timber burst from an upper floor and fall toward the street. Laurens sees a woman and man run from the front door of the house a few seconds later, tripping over each other in their rush.

“There!” Laurens shouts, pointing toward the newly burning home.

He breathes in deeply through his nose as he sees the couple stare up at their house. It could be Laurens’ own house, his father’s house. He feels the sight cut deep into his gut, his home city burning.

It is just after dark when Laurens returns to the tall stone building of headquarters. His hands ache, some minor burns on his palms, wet soot on his face and staining his neck cloth. Few buildings burned completely in the end, most with only small fires they were able to douse. The British did not continue firing heated shells above an hour, but it was enough to cause damage and their attention for hours more. Despite this, several buildings were lost, burnt until the bricks crumbled and wood creaked, no way to save them from destruction. 

Laurens walks sluggishly across the courtyard, past men still at work, and into the building. He passes a room where other men tend to burns worse that his but Laurens does not stop. He thinks of his city behind him, the British so close at their door, of failure again and again.

He stops at General Lincoln’s office door, a candle lit inside. He peers in to see General Lincoln standing at the window, hands clasped behind his broad back. He stands very still, no other man in the room, the light glinting off his powdered hair. Laurens sees one open letter atop the General’s desk.

“General, sir?” Laurens asks into the dimness.

General Lincoln does not turn around. “General Clinton has asked for our unconditional surrender.”

 **Day 150**  
Hamilton sits in the aide-de-camp office with Tilghman and McHenry. Before him lies a letter from General Anthony Wayne bemoaning the state of troops in Delaware and of the second Maryland Brigade. He writes of lack of provisions which will no doubt lead to sickness, death or desertion. He also writes of the need of Charles Town, of perhaps countermanding marching orders to send more men to Charles Town which is in desperate need. 

Hamilton knows very well what an answer might be from the General’s hand. Yet Hamilton has written many of His Excellency’s letters. Much of him wishes to simply write the reply himself, tell Wayne, ‘yes, send all such troops to Charles Town, relieve their insufficient force, save the city,’ save his Laurens.

“I have not abused my authority yet…” Hamilton mutters to himself. 

He wonders what his Betsy would do, would she break rank to help him were Hamilton the man in Charles Town in peril? No doubt she would have much to say on the morality of obeying orders but just as much on the needs their country and fellow men.

“This war always feels a loss no matter what move we should make.”

“What’s that?” Tilghman asks as he looks up from his writing of the general orders of the day.

Hamilton gestures to the letter. “General Wayne writes of the needs of Charles Town.”

Tilghman’s lips twist. “Yes, need of men no doubt?”

“Yes.”

“We have sent some, have we not?” McHenry asks.

“Not enough,” Hamilton and Tilghman say together.

“They should require more to hold the city,” Hamilton says staring at General Wayne’s entreats. “But we need men here to hold the north.” Hamilton makes a frustrated noise – wishes to be with Eliza, in her arms away from such worries and trials, thinking of marriage and the future, not the cold and dreary now.

Suddenly, Hamilton hears the sound of hurried feet from the hall. He looks up, Tilghman and McHenry mirroring his surprised attention. Then Harrison appears in the door looking more boy than man in his visage.

“Gentlemen, we have a great surprise in both news and person.”

“Laurens?” Hamilton asks, standing up quickly with joy and fear seizing his heart.

“Close,” Harrison says. He then steps aside, eyes turned down the hall.

The Marquis de Lafayette steps into the doorway, General Washington and Meade smiling behind him.

“Lafayette!” Tilghman cries as he near jumps from his chair.

“My god!” McHenry cries, also rising as well.

Hamilton hurries to the door as the men step inside, Tilghman and McHenry close beside him. “It is the greatest pleasure to see you returned from France to us!” Hamilton cries, grasping Lafayette’s hands before the others. “We have missed you so and longed to hear from you.”

“And I have missed all of you.” Lafayette grins wide, turning to look at each of them. “I have feared for you all in my absence.”

“But to have you back,” Tilghman says.

“We are so glad,” McHenry insists.

“We all are,” Harrison adds.

Lafayette laughs, gripping each man’s hand in turn. “I could not ask a better welcome!”

“You we will see we no longer have Fitzgerald,” Meade says as he skirts around the cluster of men into the room, his riding boots and hat still on. “He was injured at Monmouth and thus left the service.”

“And Laurens fights in the south,” Harrison explains. “As we have told you of the siege there.”

“Yes,” Lafayette says, his expression turned grave. “The General has spoken of this.”

General Washington nods. “There is likely to be no good resolution and I had hoped General Lincoln to heed my advice of retreat in this regard, but we can but wait now.”

“We can give them no relief?” Hamilton asks sharply. “We have men in Delaware marching now, we could send them further south.”

“You are well aware of our stalemate here and New York –”

“New York,” Hamilton cuts the General off, making Lafayette’s eyes widen, “Is not under attack from us at present. General Wayne writes –”

“I shall read it, you need not dictate,” General Washington interrupts Hamilton sharply, with a tone of finality which makes Hamilton’s teeth clench.

“I may bring some hope to both such problems,” Lafayette says softly. All heads turn to Lafayette. He smiles slowly. “The French King and government have promised me a large force to sail and join the fight here.”

“Truly?” McHenry asks.

Lafayette nods. “They should arrive in but a few months.”

Tilghman and Meade erupt into pleased exclamations as Harrison claps Lafayette on the back. General Washington shakes Lafayette’s hands. Harrison starts to talk about numbers of men and allotment while McHenry mentions possibilities of a naval fight. Hamilton watches Lafayette, the smile on his face and the promise his mere presence brings. He thinks if Laurens can hold out long enough, Charles Town may yet be saved; New York may yet be retaken. Hamilton is not conventionally the man of optimism but in the face of Lafayette – his French promise, his return to them, his reminder of the hardier days of the war – Hamilton feels himself hopeful of victory.

After Lafayette speaks to General Washington for a time, more specifics which he was able to get from his government of the number of men and ships, he returns to the aide-de-camp office to visit.

“It has been most dour without you,” Tilghman says. “The winter here at Morristown has been worse than Valley Forge.”

“Worse?” Lafayette exclaims in alarm.

“Not worse,” Harrison says as he counts the fair copies of the general orders. “Colder and snowier but not worse.”

“We were prepared this time,” Gibbs says, having arrived when word of Lafayette spread through camp. “I can say no man grew as hungry or unshod as in Pennsylvania.”

“And we thank you for it,” Tilghman remarks with a significant sip of his coffee.

“As well you should,” Gibbs says then laughs as he stands once more, picking up a ledger. “Or more so the quarter master’s office.” He taps the ledger on his hand. “I see to the General. Welcome back, Marquis.” Gibbs then turns from the room.

“A pleasure to be returned,” Lafayette says to Gibbs’s retreating coat.

“But the winter was still quite cold,” McHenry continues. “It is pleasing for you to arrive in the spring once more.”

“Indeed,” Lafayette replies. “I could surely not sail in winter storms.”

“But it has not just been the winter,” Meade says, standing at Harrison’s instance. “We have lost friend after friend from this office.” Meade takes the orders from Harrison then paces in search of his hat once more. “First you.”

“He is not of this office,” McHenry corrects.

Meade presses on as he folds each piece of paper in half in his circle about the room. “Then Fitzgerald from his wound.” He puts the papers in his pocket as he picks up one hat that appears to be Harrison’s. “Then Laurens to the south. He even returned for a few short weeks to tease us before leaving once more.” Tilghman finally stands up, picking up Meade’s hat from the chair where Meade left it. “And now I fear myself and Hamilton the next casualties.”

“How might you fear the loss of yourself?” McHenry says with a frown.

Meade finally takes his hat from Tilghman with a grin.

“And like to leave me the dour one,” Tilghman says with a frown at Meade. “But I cannot censure you your happiness.”

“And what is such happiness?” Lafayette asks.

Meade grins. “There has been a lady much on my mind this year and she has consented to take this widower as her own.”

“You mean you to take her,” McHenry corrects.

“I mean as I say.”

Tilghman snorts.

“And I mean you to deliver the general orders before the day languishes without them,” Harrison says standing up and leading Meade to the door by the arm.

“What, Harrison, should I not tell all of my Mary?”

Tilghman follows them out. “You should tell more after your marriage.”

“I say!” Harrison scolds as they step into the hall.

“Wait!” McHenry cries. “There are letters more to send than the general orders, who might ride these?” He jumps up and chases after the trio, leaving Hamilton and Lafayette alone in the office.

Lafayette turns to Hamilton, gripping his hands and squeezing tightly. “I have missed you so my friend.”

“And I you.”

“It was many a mournful day without the comfort of your friendship and all those of the family.” Lafayette looks truly sorrowful at the memory. “I had worried so for you here, especially with news of the southern campaign and Savannah.”

“Yes, indeed,” Hamilton replies. “But you find us all well here.” Hamilton feels a child-like grin starting to pull at his cheeks. “Some of us more than well, not only Meade.”

Lafayette pulls his hands back and raises his eyebrows in interest. “Yes?”

Hamilton lets the grin burst forth on his face, his whole body tingling with excitement, at the thrill of telling yet another friend of his future happiness. “I must tell you, I am engaged to be married!”

Lafayette smiles instantly with pleased surprise. “Married!” 

Hamilton nods. “She is Miss Elizabeth Schuyler and she is the most good-hearted girl you could meet, exquisite dark eyes and hair. Dark as black, it is entrancing. She has an interest in politics quite unexpected in a woman but her father is General Schuyler. She is modest and kind, immensely diverting, not vain or frivolous. She listens most attentively and her family has been so open and welcoming to me.”

“Oh indeed?” Lafayette says happily. 

Hamilton grins all the more. “She is such a beauty, I cannot describe it in any manner that should do my lady justice. I must confess myself completely at her mercy and am most blessed to have her consent.” He sighs happily. “I am almost in disbelief at my impending matrimony.” He grips Lafayette’s arm in his excitement. “I shall be a married man.”

“And have you told your closest friend, who is absent, about your joy?” Lafayette asks, his expression turned unreadable.

“Laurens?” Hamilton asks though he most certainly knows Lafayette’s meaning. Lafayette nods once. Hamilton pauses for a breath. “No.”

“And why not? It is certainly news to share which you are in enraptures of.” Lafayette presses his lips together and dips his head. “Unless you fear he should not share your joy?”

“No,” Hamilton says sharply, defensively. “Why should he not share my joy?” He clears his throat, trying to tell Lafayette’s mind upon his features.

“Why should he not?” Lafayette asks quietly. “If you are happy, so should your friend be.”

“Yes...”

“Unless he has reason not to be?”

Hamilton stares for a long moment at Lafayette. Lafayette keeps his gaze, nothing condemning in his expression, nothing truly revealing, except mild concern. 

“Why should he not be?” Hamilton replies, his voice dropped low. “Do not all men desire a wife and home?” Hamilton pauses then speaks faster, as if he must convince himself as well. “And he must know such a friend as he will fall no lower in my affection with the acquisition of a wife?”

Lafayette nods once then reaches out and squeezes Hamilton hand. “I think he should not know your joy or your care if you do not write him of such.”

Hamilton nods. “Yes...”

“Then he may understand and share your joy.” Lafayette pauses and squeezes Hamilton’s hand again. “Feel no fear of it.”

“Why should he fear?”

“I speak of you.”

Hamilton huffs but he hears his voice betray some truth. “What should I fear?”

Lafayette pulls his hand back. “I understand we all would wish our friends to share every aspect of our happiness but perhaps it is not always as simple as this.”

Hamilton looks away. His mind whirls; Laurens, Eliza, deep kisses, candle lit dances and marriage and Lafayette before him who knows – who knows, God, this must mean he knows.

“Hamilton.” Hamilton looks back to Lafayette, Hamilton’s jaw tight with tension. “I speak as a friend and I believe with you that Laurens should be pleased at your future advantage and delight. He is your dearest friend and would always want your happiness however it should be.”

Hamilton breathes in deeply and nods back. “Thank you.”

“But you still must tell him of it.”

“I will.”

“It should not...” Lafayette flutters his fingers, pausing. “It should be news from your lips and not another.”

“Yes...” 

Not as Hamilton learned, not as Laurens failed to tell him in turn. A vindictive part of Hamilton thinks perhaps he should wait longer still, let Laurens learn after the deed is done and Laurens may too feel as Hamilton did. The remainder of Hamilton tells him this now is not the same and he should act a lover and not an enemy to Laurens, even in this.

Lafayette nods again with a smile then starts to turn away. 

Hamilton reaches out reflexively and grabs Lafayette’s arm. “Lafayette, do you truly think he should be happy for me?”

Lafayette opens his mouth then shuts it again quickly. He puts his hand over Hamilton's. “I cannot say with certainty but you must find out.” Lafayette gives Hamilton a sympathetic look. “You care for him enough to know, do you not?”

“I do. Dearly.”

Lafayette smiles. “Then write him.”

 **Day 152**  
The honors of war, in regards to an enemy surrender, dictate that the surrendering party be allowed flags unfurled, bayonets fixed, drums beating and the playing of a victory march upon retreat from the field of battle, or city under siege as it may be. Such honors are meant as a sign of respect to show the valor of the defeated side and are often custom in battle. 

The Continental forces upon their surrender of Charles Town are granted no honors of war.

Laurens marches behind General Hogun, the other Generals in line with him; Colonels and Lieutenant Colonels walk on either side of Laurens. General Lincoln rides at the very head of their parade. No flag flies before General Lincoln or on the edges of their line. All their flags remain wrapped tight, carried by ragged young soldiers. No officer carries his sword out on his shoulder, no arms of any kind are allowed in ready display. Instead they must march as if castrated, no weapons to show, a visual punishment for their daring to defend their city against such a might as the British.

Laurens marches with his eyes straight ahead, no horses for any rank below General. A Turkish march plays instead of any American tune. His teeth clench so tight his jaw begins to ache. He watches the horses ahead of him, just able to see Clinton’s face. His expression appears as tight and stony as Laurens’ own. The civilians watching along their march do not cheer, none offer any words of hope or remorse. Except for the music playing, their march is silent. 

Laurens keeps his arms straight down, stiff and longing to pull his sword from his scabbard. He wants to fly in the face of their surrender and attack every British solider he sees. He wants to fight until bullet or steel lay him down in the street. He wants to do anything other than this march of shame.

“Bastards…” Laurens hears someone whisper behind him as the front of their column exits the city and the British sea of red appears before them.

Laurens watches the British parallels grow closer as they march, the British camp beyond that. The anger and shame fill his chest so tightly he finds himself in difficulty of breathing. He knows Ternant marches near behind him, Jackson too, other friends, all his compatriots in the south – the entirety of the southern Continental army marches into capture.

It is then that the thought seems to strike between Laurens’ eyes as reality, ‘I am a prisoner of war.’

 **Day 164**  
Hamilton rides back to headquarters after a pleasant afternoon with his Eliza. He knows they likely to leave winter quarters soon and he will be forced to leave her behind, possibly until their marriage. He wishes he might take a furlough to stay by her side, but he knows it impossible. It should be little time until they return to one another again and he knows how much she respects and admires his commitment to the efforts of the war.

Hamilton dismounts his horse as he approaches the front of Ford Mansion. He passes his horse off quickly to a servant in his distraction to what appears to be an argument raging through the door, over the porch and onto the ground before the house.

“I will not accept the truth of it!” Tilghman cries from the doorway, his head turning back and forth between the interior of the house and the porch.

Lafayette stands before him on the porch, hat still on his head and what looks like a newspaper in his hand. “You cannot deny this and the General thought it likely.”

“If we send a rider…” Meade tries from where he stands at the base of the stairs.

“To where?” Tilghman hisses, clearly attempting to keep his voice down. “Charles Town?”

“Congress!” Meade replies. “They must know the truth.”

“So soon as this? We may be the first to hear.” Tilghman counters.

“Tilghman, mon ami, it is a newspaper,” Lafayette says with pity in his tone.

“A newspaper under British control. What might they print to spread their own propaganda and engender disquiet and fear among the populous of New York and beyond? I would not think them incapable.”

“And yet, we knew the likelihood of the city’s fall,” Lafayette says. “You know His Excellency wrote them himself of the folly of their remaining.”

“Harrison,” Tilghman hisses into the house. Tilghman says something more Hamilton cannot hear before he turns his head back. “It is only hearsay!”

“It must be true,” Lafayette says. “You know this.” 

“We must get more information!” Meade insists. “Perhaps Henry Laurens, after all –”

“What must we know?” Hamilton asks, finally interrupting the tirade at the mention of Laurens’ father. “Of what do you argue so?”

All three men turn to Hamilton, certainly only noticing him now he speaks. Tilghman hisses something under his breath then turns about to march back inside the house.

Lafayette’s expression turns somehow more forlorn than previously. “Oh, Hamilton…”

Meade sighs then reaches up and takes the paper from Lafayette’s hands. He walks over to Hamilton and holds out a newspaper. It is the New York Gazette.

“Charles Town,” Meade explains as Hamilton’s eyes spin around the print looking for the applicable story. “It is fallen into British hands. They have surrendered; all the soldiers and officers taken as prisoner.”

Hamilton looks up sharply, barely reading five words of the article. “All? You cannot mean all. That is….”

“Thousands of men,” Meade answers, “Yes. Near the whole of the army in the south, all the men fighting within the city as far as we may tell. We need still letters to confirm this. I have said how we must write Congress. No doubt correspondence from Charles Town itself are on their way even now.”

“But Laurens,” Hamilton says unwilling to contain his real concern. “Laurens was among – does this mean Laurens captured too?”

“We cannot know with certainty,” Lafayette says from the porch.

“Why should he not be?” Meade hisses, his head twisting back to Lafayette. Then he huffs a breath and turns to Hamilton again. “I cannot think otherwise. The article tells of total victory, the garrison all under British control. I…” Meade takes a shaky breath. “I can only hope that we may receive word the officers are given leave and only the general soldiers taken as prisoners.”

“Surely, yes…” Hamilton says without confidence. “The officers at least.” 

Laurens at least. He is a Lieutenant Colonel; he was an aide-de-camp to General Washington. Surely, he should not be kept a prisoner. Surely the British would allow the officers – Laurens – freedom to return back to the Northern body of the army. The loss of so many other men would be great, yes, but it is not without history for officers to be given leave.

Meade shakes his head at Hamilton. “We cannot know yet.” 

“The paper!” Hamilton and Meade turn to Tilghman’s cry from the house. “His Excellency asks for it.”

Hamilton and Meade look at each other then hurry toward the house, Lafayette near pushing them inside as they pass him. The four men walk briskly through the hall and back to the General’s office. Harrison and McHenry wait inside with him. Meade quickly hands the newspaper to General Washington where he stands behind one table. 

“Thank you, Meade,” General Washington replies quietly.

The men all stare at the General as he methodically folds the paper in half then into a quarter. He places it down on the table beside a letter. He leans down enough and carefully signs his name at the bottom of the letter. Hamilton glances at Harrison, hoping for some sign in the man’s countenance. Harrison, however, still watches the General. Hamilton cannot stand the silence.

“Is it true, sir?” Hamilton asks. “Charles Town?”

“We do not know,” Harrison says.

“I asked General Washington,” Hamilton replies brusquely.

Harrison raises his eyebrows high.

“Hamilton,” McHenry whispers in rebuke.

Hamilton feels Lafayette try to grip his wrist in some attempt at restraining him, but Hamilton pulls his arm out of reach. “Sir?”

General Washington looks up, seemingly unconcerned for Hamilton’s outburst. “I would prefer to think it not so but with the letters we have received prior of Charles Town’s failing resources and their defenses, the absence of word for several weeks which must mean the removal of their open lines of communication and the advice I gave months back of the folly of such victory there, I believe this report likely true.”

“But a newspaper…” Tilghman says weakly.

“If our Generals are under capture and were forced into surrender, it may be less surprising than we should wish that their own communications lag.”

“Lag behind a newspaper?” Tilghman insists again.

Meade grips Tilghman’s arm and pulls him several steps back, as if this should be enough to quell Tilghman’s anger or hide him from the General’s view. Tilghman turns his head angrily to Meade but the look Meade gives back – such remorse and concern – Tilghman shuts his mouth and stares down at the floor.

“I write to Huntington at Congress,” General Washington says, his voice still infuriatingly calm as he passes the finished letter and newspaper to Harrison. “They have likely received letters we have not as yet.”

“Or we inform them with this news?” Lafayette asks. “And what might yet be done?”

“The officers will likely be given parole,” Harrison says as he heats wax over a candle for the letter. “We shall have to begin negotiations for exchange with the prisoners we have.”

“Exchange?” Hamilton says hotly. “For the entire garrison of Charles Town? We do not have the numbers to exchange so many!”

Harrison holds up his free hand. “The officers –”

“Even the officers! And the British will surely know the prizes they keep and the blow they have dealt. How might we recover from this?”

“Hamilton…”

“One of our own family must now lie under capture! Laurens was there too!” Hamilton’s family, his darling. “It is half our army gone. What might –”

“The French reinforcements,” Lafayette says, just loud enough to cut off Hamilton’s frenzy. “They sail even now and should arrive soon. We will have them to recover numbers of men and turn the tide once more. This is a loss, but it is not the end.”

Hamilton blows out a heavy breath. He knows the truth of Lafayette’s words, of the hope for the war they must keep but his heart cries, ‘Laurens, Laurens, Laurens.’

“I understand your passion and your concern,” General Washington says. “And I am certainly not insensible to this loss and the position it puts before us. You would do well to remember this, Lieutenant Colonel.” General Washington stares long at Hamilton until Hamilton nods jerkily and averts his eye.

His Excellency walks around the table and stands with his hands behind his back. “We must verify this report and await further news, but I am decided that we must treat the reported loss of Charles Town as truth. If it not be now, then we know it imminent. We were unable to aid the forces in the south more and knew the perilousness their position.”

Hamilton bites his lips to keep the scowl from his face. He knows of Laurens’ letters to General Washington, how Laurens asked, even pleaded for General Washington to travel south himself and help the cause. Hamilton knows the situation in the north, knows the will of congress, but what worth is a stalemate in one quarter when another receives such a devastating loss? Is that not inaction and cowardice?

“We shall send to Congress today and learn news from them. I would ask you all to keep such information to this office though I know it still like to spread through camp in due time.”

A few of the aides murmurer, ‘yes, Your Excellency,’ though Hamilton cannot force his mouth to work.

“To your duties now and should any letter arrive with pertinent news of Charles Town, I ask it brought directly to my office. Dismissed.”

Hamilton turns and exits the office first, his shoes loud in the hall. He stops halfway between the rooms, blinking in the stream of light coming from the narrow windows on either side of the front door. Tilghman and Meade hurry past him and into the aide-de-camp office, Tilghman saying something about British censorship. McHenry walks around Hamilton, squeezing his shoulder once. It is Lafayette, however, who stops next to Hamilton.

“We might have gone to fight too,” Hamilton whispers. “You were yet gone but I asked, I requested leave south.”

“And what good should that have found but your capture now? You are one man.”

Hamilton hears Washington’s words from months past, ‘you are but one man.’

“One more man they may have needed,” Hamilton hisses. He could have been with Laurens then. He would know now where Laurens should be, free or captured or…

“It did not speak of casualties,” Hamilton says, his voice even quieter. “The Gazette, it did not mention…”

“I think it unlikely many killed,” Lafayette says quickly. “A siege should damage fortifications and property more.”

“Yes.”

“Men under capture is better and officers shall be granted parole.”

“Yes.”

“And we still must wait.” Lafayette turns slightly so he is within Hamilton’s eyeline. “We must wait for letters from General Lincoln, from his staff, our friends.” He leans on the last word. “I would rather know in this moment too, but we must wait to hear the truth of Charles Town.”

“It is fallen. I cannot think any other truth than this.”

“I know.”

Hamilton breathes out slowly. “There is but one letter I wish most of all.”

Lafayette squeezes Hamilton’s hand. “I feel the same.”

Hamilton stares at the door still. Laurens is an officer. Laurens has connection to General Washington and Laurens’ own father, such things which will help him greatly under capture, grant him parole and sooner exchange if he truly be captured. Hamilton’s mind spins with the horror if they two were merely soldiers, Privates who would be confined to prison ships and wait years under deplorable capture growing sicker by day. He thinks of Laurens below decks of some rotting hulk with dirty, hallowed cheeks and vacant eyes. 

Hamilton prays as earnestly as his Eliza does that Laurens is free, will be free, that no such horror should befall Hamilton’s own beautiful man, that his Laurens is safe and not shot or shackled under some British hand. He prays for Laurens back before him – under his touch and kiss – for his Laurens to not be a prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references, the major ones at least  
> [To George Washington from Antoine-Jean-Louis Le Bègue de Presle Duportail, 17 May 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-01770)  
> [To Alexander Hamilton from Philip Schuyler, 8 April 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0642)  
> [To George Washington from John Laurens, 9 April 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-01410)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Catherine Schuyler, [14 April 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0648)  
> [From George Washington to John Laurens, 26 April 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-01589)
> 
> [Virginia Line](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_Line)  
> [Battle of Charleston](https://revolutionarywar.us/year-1780/battle-of-charleston/)  
> [Jean Baptiste Ternant](http://thelittlelionofvalleyforge.tumblr.com/post/173634678781/jean-baptiste-ternant) (Great write up about Ternant)  
> [To John Adams from John Bondfield, 17 March 1781](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Adams/06-11-02-0148) (In case you want to know more about William Jackson in the footnotes)


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 165**  
John Laurens stares out of the window of one of the long Continental army barracks at the city of Charles Town. With the surrender of the city, the barracks to the immediate north and south of their headquarters have been turned into quartering for the American prisoners before they can be sent to British prison ships or elsewhere to serve their parole. Laurens’ barracks for the officers lies between their barricade wall and the city so he may look out upon what they have lost. He sees several buildings black from the shelling, some crumbled down to rubble. The little of the streets he sees from his vantage point appear near free of civilians, some of them taken prisoner as well and caged in the basement of the Exchange. Laurens feels some comfort in the knowledge his father escaped before this end or he too would be in a prison basement.

“Laurens?”

Laurens turns from the window to see Ternant through the wood slats of the bunked beds walking toward him. Men crowded on lower beds watch Ternant as he stops before Laurens at the rear of the building.

“News?”

Ternant shakes his head. “Not as you may wish.”

“There are many things I would not wish.” Laurens crosses his arms. “But you are sent as envoy to Congress under parole, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is good news.”

“But I am to go alone.”

Laurens shifts his arms against his chest, his fingers curling up over his arm. “I am less surprised than you may expect. It was a vain hope to join you.”

“I understand you only wish to be useful but the British will give little leeway.”

Laurens pulls one hand from his knotted arms and waves it dismissively. “You need not attempt to pacify me. I have been under this siege too and know quite well their terms and mercy now.”

Ternant frowns. “I am sorry.”

Laurens nods. “And?”

Ternant gestures to the bag he carries. “And I take General Lincoln’s letters with me but I thought to take yours as well.”

Laurens smiles and breathes out so his shoulders fall loose. “I had hoped you to say so. I have written to General Washington.” Laurens uncurls his arms and reaches into his coat. He pulls out the one letter which Ternant takes at once. “I had hoped also time to write my father and give such to you if you were able to take personal correspondence.”

“I would take yours.”

Laurens reaches out and grips Ternant’s hand without thought. Ternant squeezes back but says nothing else. Laurens pulls back and crosses his arms again. He glances around Ternant at the men packed into the barracks, sitting on beds or standing near windows, all idle and restless and caged.

“This shall not be long.” Laurens’ eyes shift back to Ternant as he speaks. “As an officer, you will be given parole.”

“Yes.”

“It may not be the fight once more but nor will it be a prison ship.”

“I cannot rejoice at the expense of other men.”

Ternant takes a step closer. “You know I did not mean such.” Ternant grips Laurens arm and pulls him back closer to the window for some modicum of privacy. “Do you not think it likely you paroled sooner? You are Henry Laurens’ son, you are an aide-de-camp to General Washington.”

“I am not such here.”

“But they are not like to keep you here,” Ternant hisses. “You should be sent to Philadelphia with General Lincoln and his staff.”

“Yes.” 

“There you may petition Congress. You may ask General Washington to use his influence and you may return to the battle as I know you wish.”

“I have.”

Ternant frowns. “What?” 

“I have asked General Washington such in my letter.” Laurens sighs. “The thought of languishing under such humiliation for months or years is so abhorrent… I thought much as you have said. I can certainly be of no use idle and trapped here or wherever else. So, I must seek an earlier parole.”

“Yes. And I think you likely to gain such.” Ternant squeezes Laurens’ arm in support. “I hope very much so.”

“I hope the same for you.”

Ternant chuckles with some incredulousness to his tone. “I think my time under parole shall prove to be longer than yours. I have no such connections.”

Laurens covers Ternant’s hand with his own. “You have me.”

Ternant’s fingers twist with Laurens’ then Ternant pulls away, a hesitant smile on his face. “You are kind.” He hikes his bag up higher on his shoulder. “Now, write your letter. I must leave in less than an hour. The British have escort for me to the edge of their lines.” Ternant raises his eyebrows with a ‘hmm’ noise of concern.

As Ternant turns away back toward the barracks entrance, Laurens calls, “Jean?”

Ternant pauses then turns his head, a look of surprise on his face. “Yes, John?” He gives a half-hearted look of amusement.

Laurens crosses his arms anew. “If I were to write another letter, could I burden you with this as well?”

Ternant’s faux expression of amusement shifts into one of fondness. “It would not be a burden.” He does not ask to whom Laurens would write. 

To Hamilton, Laurens writes,

_I am myself among that number you will have no doubt heard of by this time taken prisoner of the British at our forced surrender in Charles Town. I cannot convey to you the humiliation I feel at my state, the helplessness of such a fate and how severely every bone of my body and each thought of my mind strains against such bonds. You know me to be a man of action and yet now I must wait and submit._

_I ask myself should I have returned here to a fate all signs foretold to be hopeless? Did I give myself up as a lamb for slaughter at my departure from you in December? Would it not have been better to have remained where I was, to fight for my city in absentia by gaining the numbers needed through my own petition there instead of prideful return with thoughts of my presence being utterly necessary? Did I think only of pride, of glory? Were all those things you accused of me true? Did I have a blindness of duty with the sword and my regimental plan that ignored that office which perhaps I could have used better?_

_If I had stayed would I now have your arms about me in comfort at the loss of Charles Town instead? Would I have your kiss and smile and beautiful visage instead of the barracks door, this prison, and the sight of my ruined, lost city? I want you so much more instead, my Alexander. In this moment I forswear my pride and honor and wish only for you, dear boy._

**Day 176**  
“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”

Hamilton bows quickly then takes General Schuyler’s offered hand. “Sir, a pleasure to meet you and under such new circumstances between us.”

“Indeed.” General Schuyler shakes once then pulls his hand back, nodding. His expression remains serious but not as severe as Hamilton feared from some of Eliza’s warnings. “I am glad to meet my future son-in-law before the army should disembark. When are you to leave?”

“Two days, sir.”

“Hmm. A pity so short a time.” General Schuyler gestures to the house behind him. “You must dine with my brother-in-law and myself tonight and tomorrow before you leave.”

“Thank you, sir. I have enjoyed many a dinner here these past months.”

“I am aware.”

Hamilton clears his throat and keeps his back straight. “Of course.”

“Father?” Eliza appears at the opening of the door to the rear family parlor. She curtseys to Hamilton then looks to General Schuyler. “Might you two wish to leave the hall now and sit comfortably?” Her lips twist. “Or does the man who we both accepted the proposal of require more examination before his admittance?”

Hamilton’s eyes widen at Eliza’s cheek as her father turns to her. Hamilton catches the man’s small smile however as he approaches Eliza.

“Of course, daughter. I cannot argue your words in this case.”

“Thank you.”

He touches her hand once then turns on his heel back toward Hamilton. “If you will, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Hamilton nods as a servant takes his hat and sword, disappearing again almost without Hamilton noticing the attention. He walks down the hall back to the family parlor. As much he has dinned with the family, taken tea, and escorted Eliza about town, he has not been given admittance to the family parlor. 

Hamilton swallows once as he enters the room. He glances around quickly. The walls are painted red, a pair of paintings of individuals he does not recognize, a folding table against one wall set with glasses and an empty carafe, four chairs across from each other before the fire and a table between two of them. Eliza sits in the one chair as her father sits in the one beside her. This leaves Hamilton either chair across from them. It feels much as an interview.

“Sit, Lieutenant Colonel,” General Schuyler says, “we are, after all, to be family.”

Hamilton breathes in once and sits down. “I should be pleased to meet Mrs. Schuyler and Miss Schuyler’s siblings as well as yourself, sir, all the family.” 

“Hmm, indeed.” General Schuyler tilts his head as a servant enters the room carrying a large tea tray. “And what of your family?”

Hamilton watches the edge of the tea tray as it passes behind him with the girl moving to the table against the wall. “I have a brother.”

General Schuyler waits as Hamilton pauses. Hamilton clears his throat listening to the sounds of the tea cups clinking in their saucers, the tap of the sugar spoon.

“And your parents?”

“My mother is no longer living and…” Hamilton sits up as if at attention. “My father and I are estranged.”

General Schuyler nods. “I see.”

Hamilton thinks he does not see.

“But it is not your blood family which should matter now,” Eliza says. “I think more of the family that should be created, that family of myself and Colonel Hamilton.” She turns to her father. “A new son and father made by our union.”

General Schuyler and Hamilton smile in the same moment. General Schuyler turns his head back to Hamilton with a nod. Hamilton thinks Eliza very much knows just how to speak to her father. She must surely be a favorite of his eye.

“I will be happy to see a daughter married to such an honorable man.” He purses his lips in evident displeasure. “Better than to learn of a marriage by letter.”

“Father,” Eliza scolds. “We need not belabor a deed done which you see not repeated here. I am not Angelica, nor eloping.”

“I will ‘belabor’ your sister as I wish, no matter how well the match, due to the pain it caused your mother.”

Eliza dips her head. “As you say, father.” Then her eyes tick up. “But I shall we pleased for you both to be present and to see myself married in your house.”

General Schuyler sighs but his expression turns pleased once more and he squeezes his daughter’s hand. “As will I.”

“I am honored once again to be accepted and to join such a family as the Schuylers,” Hamilton says. 

Then the girl hands Hamilton his cup of tea. Hamilton watches as she gives a cup to Eliza next, whispering something about ‘an extra cube.’ Hamilton smiles at this odd intimacy, an intimacy he wants more of.

Hamilton turns his head toward General Schuyler once more as the girl moves back for the last cup. “Having little family, and that family I do possess being even further out of reach, it is a blessing to me to find one through matrimony. I shall do all I can to deserve your favor and place in your family.”

General Schuyler nods. “You do well thus far, Colonel Hamilton. Indeed, General Washington speaks well of you as does my daughter.” Eliza nods as she sips her tea. The girl appears again now to hand the final tea cup to General Schuyler as he speaks on. “I may have scruples in some cases as to your lack of fortune and name but I see your ambitions to make such a name. Your service in the war now and your position in the General’s office are both commendable and do credit to your character.”

“Thank you, sir.”

General Schuyler waves away the servant girl. “I understand you to have been schooled in New York in the law.”

Hamilton’s eyes tick to Eliza and he wonders just how much of their conversation she has written to her parents; knowing her as he does, he thinks her accounts glowing with his accomplishments and never his fears.

“Yes, sir, I joined the army before I was able to finish, however.”

“No matter,” General Schuyler replies as he sips his tea once. “I think such things better learned in practice. The army and a position of aide-de-camp, no doubt, will to add to such an education.”

Hamilton chuckles, shifting his teacup in its saucer, undrunk. “Indeed, sir.”

Their conversation drifts away for a time to matters of the war – Charles Town, New York, the army’s quartering, Congress and problems of money. Hamilton takes only one large gulp of his tea, fearful to move it again lest his hands shake. He keeps the cup in his hands, anchoring himself to something solid. He tries to treat the exchange as any day’s required entertaining for General Washington’s office. He has taken tea and dinner and even performed for uncounted guests. General Schuyler is but one man; yet one man who is to become Hamilton’s father.

“The General’s office is much a family, especially those men who have served with him for years. But I am eager to begin a permanent family, one beyond the army,” Hamilton says at last, as the servant returns to take General Schuyler and Eliza’s empty cups from their hands.

“I imagine at times it must be hard to see beyond the fight to normal life, even to the future beyond our war,” Eliza says, her dark eyes meeting his, promising him that mysterious future.

“Yes, but you,” Hamilton turns his head sharply to General Schuyler, “your daughter, sir, allows for such a view to be clear.” Hamilton’s eyes shift to somewhere in between the two chairs across from him. “I can think of no such future more pleasing than that of a large family, a wife and children. It is something I have long desired.”

“Lacking a family behind you as your own,” General Schuyler fills in, his voice with a searching tone.

Hamilton’s eyes return to the man and he decides if this man should be his family, his daughter Hamilton’s wife, then he should be willing to reveal more of himself. “I do not come from a happy or whole family, sir. I lost most of it at a young age and have had to live as an individual and, while I have been blessed with support and friends along my path, it is not the same as a family. A family sustains a man, makes a home. That is what I wish.”

Hamilton’s sees a shine about Eliza’s eyes. She turns her head away, her hand touching her cheek.

General Schuyler says. “And a family you shall make as part of ours, son.”

Hamilton clenches his teeth shut to stop a surprised gasp from escaping his throat. He feels a tug at his hands and looks up to see the servant girl clutching the saucer of his half-finished tea cup. She looks at his face in question and he lets go of the china.

General Schuyler stands up from his chair, making Hamilton and Eliza stand up in response. “Now, I must bid you good day, sir.” General Schuyler walks Hamilton toward the parlor door, opening it with one hand while he places the other on Hamilton’s shoulder. “I suspect you have duties to attend to, as I do. We shall see you here again this afternoon for dinner.”

“Gladly, sir.”

“And I think, though perhaps it is early to begin, but no matter, I think you should call me father.”

Hamilton stares at the man until he manages a nod. He whispers back, “As you wish, father.”

 **Day 179**  
The army leaves Morristown at first light a week into June. Hamilton walks through the house checking with the servants that all assets of the army have been collected. They often bring furniture with them and it is the most likely to be left behind if not specifically seen to. He checks General Washington’s office, the exterior door returned to a window as they found it once more. He touches the wall, the seams near hidden by rough paint.

“Army work,” Hamilton mutters. 

He wishes they had been able to add wallpaper instead but that is only an aesthetic choice of his own and certain beyond the funds of the army.

Hamilton’s lip quirks up. “What wallpaper should you prefer, Eliza?” He cocks his head, looking at the wall. “Red perhaps?”

Hamilton reaches into his pocket as he turns away from the window and pulls out his small portrait of Eliza. He circles his finger around the edge of the frame and smiles at the image, Betsy looking back up at him made of paint. Then he slips it into his pocket once more and marches through hall. He meets Tilghman as Tilghman comes down the stairs.

“All well?”

Tilghman nods. “Well.” Then holds up a slightly worn hat. “If you should wish only one hat?”

“Oh now.” Hamilton chuckles and catches the hat as Tilghman tosses it to him. “Perhaps I wished to be rid of it?”

“I suspect not.” Tilghman shakes his head. “I think you stole it in the first place. It looks more of Laurens’ caliber than yours.”

Hamilton shifts the hat around in his hands, a sharper point to the tricorn than the one upon his head. Though the interior band is loose from continued wear, the fabric is quite fine. Hamilton sees marks where a trim was once removed from the top edges. Tilghman is correct; this is an older hat Laurens gifted to Hamilton. He remembers it being from after Monmouth when Hamilton’s own hat was trampled during his fall and deemed no longer serviceable. Laurens pulled apart a hat from his trunk so Hamilton would not be in a state of undress or uniform without a hat.

“Yes…” Hamilton whispers.

“Well, do not stare at it the day long or you shall be the lone man left here,” Tilghman says as he passes toward the door.

Hamilton’s eyes tick up to the stairs, the empty rooms above with their cots and trunks taken with them. He turns sharply on his heel and exits the house.

“Knyphausen has retreated from Connecticut Farms, few casualties on our side,” Harrison says to General Washington as the aides-de-camp mount their horses outside.

Meade hurries toward the rear of their line, shouting something at the servants tying down the last of the luggage carts. 

Harrison hands up a letter to General Washington already astride his horse. “Gibbs and his Guards appear enough to dissuade them of their attempt at an advance.”

“Well done, Major Gibbs,” General Washington says to the man seated on horse near him. “And with such numbers against us.”

“Not merely us, as you know,” Gibbs says.

“You charged the troops with such a smaller force,” McHenry says. “Do take the General’s compliment as you deserve.”

Gibbs huffs a laugh then pulls off his hat to bow once to the General. General Washington only smiles at Gibbs. 

“Only a total of Fourteen killed from the regiments,” Harrison informs General Washington. “We do not have numbers on Militia men lost yet.” He nods. “They fought well.” 

“Yes.” General Washington then urges his horse forward. “Now we ride, Gentlemen, come along.”

Hamilton hops up onto a block and swings into his saddle. The British attempted to attack them as they prepared to leave winter quarters what with their depleted numbers from desertion and disease. The New Jersey militia, however, fought them off until Continental forces and finally Major Gibbs could come as support. Despite the balance of numbers in the British favor, they won the day or at least discouraged the advance. Hamilton at times cannot believe himself that their dwindling bits of an army are still able to combat the larger and better supplied British.

“Did you say your farewells to your lady love?” 

Hamilton turns his head to Gibbs, his horse beside Hamilton’s now as they ride after the General.

“Yes,” Hamilton replies, “only some days past.”

“Ah, certainly a sorrow to leave her.”

Hamilton worries his lip a moment his eyes on Ford Mansion, the small porch around the door. “And such a place of memories as this we have been so many months,” Hamilton adds.

Meade rides up closer on Hamilton’s other side. “I should worry we do not leave a trail of letters and furniture behind us at every turn we leave an encampment,” he groans as he attempts to hold his reigns and push sealed letters into a saddle bag.

“Any letters from Charles Town?” Hamilton asks, trying to read the directions upon the letters before the disappear from sight.

Meade huffs. “Many. A chain of melancholy word of capture, every one.”

Hamilton turns his head away and shuts his eyes quickly. His hands fist tight around the leather reigns he holds. Then he opens his eyes once more. “As we expected.” He blows out a breath. “Now, as the General said, onward.”

 **Day 183**  
Laurens waits at the door to their barracks with Colonel Miller beside him. The man stands only an inch shorter than Laurens, thick brown hair with curls that consistently cause his queue to appear lumpy and unkept even in the best conditions. They are not in the best conditions now, leaving his hair frazzled; in addition to the weight Laurens sees the man has lost in their time under capture. 

Laurens sees the same loss in himself. He rubs at his face, a layer of sweat and dirt crusted there, at least a week’s growth of hair along his jaw. He feels oddly thankful for the lack of any looking glasses in their confinement for he feels sure to be surprised at what he should see if offered the chance.

“She promised she would come,” Miller mutters.

“You cannot guarantee she even able to find available food. I imagine the civilians need it as much,” Laurens replies.

“But they are able free movement, we are not.”

Laurens turns his head to Miller. “The civilians are confined as much as we under the British occupation.”

“They are confined to a city, we to a room.” He gestures at the length of the barracks behind them.

Laurens looks over Miller’s shoulder at the crowd of men standing, sitting on bare bunks or even hunched on the floor. The Generals were removed to private homes during the negotiations over parole. The lesser ranks of commissioned officers remain under guard in the barracks. The enlisted men face far more crowded conditions in the remaining barracks, some even caged outside for want of space.

“There,” Miller says, moving closer to Laurens’ side to attempt to peer out of the gaps in the wood of the door. “I heard…”

Laurens cocks his ear, clearly hearing a woman’s voice. She sounds to be arguing.

“How do you know this woman?”

Miller makes a noncommittal noise and Laurens refrains from asking a second time. He certainly has no leg to stand upon in the face of societal disapproved relationships. All he should care for now is the possible food this woman may bring.

Thus far, their barracks has received rations at the beginning of each week to sustain them and, thus far, the rations have not been enough to last the week. As is usually custom, a prisoner’s own side in a conflict must provide for his relief. Yet they have not received any assistance from the Charles Town populace. Prior to the surrender their food supplies were in short supply and Laurens suspects any new incoming supplies to the city must funnel toward the British. 

“Martha!” Miller shouts through the doors.

“Miller,” Laurens hisses.

“It is her, I know it.” Miller bangs his hand on the door. “Let her through, damn it! Martha!”

Someone bangs back on the door from the outside making Laurens and Miller both take a step back. “Shut it!”

“You cannot deny us the simple the food she brings!” Laurens insists through the slats.

“I said, shut it!” the British guard repeats, knocking the door again.

“You have your own supply!” Laurens insists. “Allow us this. Or would you starve us as you have to prisoners this entire war? Savages!”

The door suddenly shoves inward, just missing a blow to Miller’s face. Laurens catches a glimpse of what must be Miller’s Martha walking away down the hill with empty hands. Laurens flicks his eyes around and sees two soldiers pulling a wagon carrying several baskets in the opposite direction.

“What say you, sir?” The guard snaps, bringing Laurens’ eyes around to him. The man steps closer, his breath rank upon Laurens’ face. “By British law you are traitors and you should feel lucky to be treated as prisoners of war and not given the rope immediately.”

“Then what do you think should happen to our prisoners?” Miller says harshly.

The solider sharply backhands Miller across the face. 

Laurens reacts without thinking. He shoves the soldier hard in the chest. The man stumbles backward, his hat falling from his head. Laurens advances on him swinging out with a punch that is more anger than finesse; he thinks of the siege, the burning houses, the booming sounds of the British barrage all through the night, screams of men injured along the walls. He hits the man’s chin, not hard but enough that he shouts in surprise. 

“Laurens!” Miller gasps behind him but Laurens pays him no mind.

He hits the man again, striking a true blow this time so he hears the soldier’s teeth clack.

“Fields!” Someone cries.

Arms grab Laurens from behind, yanking him back. Laurens tries to fight but he is weaker than he realizes. A month’s idleness in a barracks and inadequate food have lost him muscle and strength. He cannot pull his arms away from those who seize him.

“Laurens, stop!” He recognizes the voice of Colonel Walsh. “You gain nothing.”

“Unhand me!”

The British solider, Fields, marches over to Laurens and strikes him hard across the face with the butt of his pistol. Laurens’ head whips to the side, his neck screaming in protest and the taste of blood in his mouth.

“You little shit!” Fields says. Three more British soldiers stand behind him now as well as a Hessian. “You’re lucky to be alive! Should shoot you all.”

Field hits Laurens again in the temple with his gun. Laurens groans in pain, his knees failing so he staggers in Walsh’s arms.

“Enough!” Walsh says trying to pull Laurens back out of Fields’ reach.

Laurens’ vision spins. He feels dizzy as he tries to gain his feet once more. He coughs and blood drips from his lips. He sees Miller’s boots as the man stands in front of him, saying something of rashness and apologies. Laurens breathes in harshly, blinking over and over to make his head stop stabbing in protest. Then his feet hold fast and Laurens leans back against Walsh, using him as a wall to stand straight once more.

“Laurens…” Walsh whispers.

“I am well.”

“Stop…” Walsh insists, though he releases Laurens’ arms.

“We only ask for the food brought to us be given to us,” Laurens hisses at Fields who still argues with Miller.

Fields’ eyes turn to Laurens once more and he scowls. “I think you not worth such now.” He gestures to his face. “Assaulting an officer.”

“No better than what you would do without provocation.” Field’s eyebrows fly up. Laurens gestures back toward their barracks. “I have seen enough of our men with new wounds not from battle.”

“You know nothing!” A redheaded man beside Fields snaps.

“He is not wrong,” Miller hisses.

“Shut it!” A shorter man on the opposite side of Field says. “Back into the barracks, all of you!”

“What of the food?” Laurens says, pointing in the direction the baskets were taken. “Our own people care for us, let them!”

“You are not the only men in need of supply and the residents of Charles Town are loyal citizens of his majesty,” The redhead says. “Such supplies should come to those who faithfully serve the crown.”

“Bullshit!” Miller hisses. “I know Martha.”

“Beautiful girl,” the shorter man says quietly.

Laurens, Miller and Walsh all step forward aggressively. Field raises his pistol. “Cease!”

Miller and Walsh step back again but Laurens keeps his gained ground. He does not, however, attempt any sort of assault. He knows he must reign himself in, act the gentleman he is despite the rages captivity attempts to send him on.

“The rations you give are insufficient, that is no secret, so allow us the little else our supporters may!” Laurens insists. “You have your own supply lines!”

“Enough of this, back inside.”

“We are officers,” Laurens insists.

“Are you?” Fields says with a scowl. He reaches out and abruptly rips off one of Laurens’ epaulets. Laurens gasps in surprise then Fields rips off the second one. “Who should know you for an officer now, if officers you truly be and not mere rebels?”

“I say!” Walsh cries.

“Give us the food!” Laurens snaps.

Fields throws Laurens’ epaulets at his chest so they fall into the dirt at their feet. “You’ve had your rations. Enough.” He gestures to the men around him. “Take them inside.”

The short man, the redhead and the fourth British soldier move to grasp Walsh and Miller while Fields grips Laurens’ arm. The Hessian walks around them and opens the barracks door once more.

“You cannot refuse my request,” Laurens says trying to pull his arm free. “It is basic! You think to sustain such a group of men on the little you gave?”

“I do not care.” Fields suddenly pushes Laurens hard so Laurens back hits the wooden wall of the barracks. He hisses again, his face too close, “You live or die, what should it matter?”

“Stop it!” Miller says, trying to grab Fields and tug himself away from the redhead. “You need not use such rough treatment.”

“Perhaps you need some rough treatment,” Fields growls at Laurens – close enough so Laurens sees the bruise he caused beginning on the man’s face. “Pampered, pretty wealthy son, are you not? Perhaps you could do with a lesson in rough.”

“I can guess well enough what rough lessons you should teach a young soldier,” Laurens says quiet and accusing. “I am none such.”

Fields’ lips curl and Laurens thinks for a moment he has pushed too far. Then Field jerks backward, Miller’s hands on his neck. Fields twists in Miller’s grasp, the hessian pulling Miller off almost immediately and throwing him to the ground as if he only a sack of flour. He kicks Miller in the ribs so Miller makes a choked off noise.

“Leave him!” Laurens tries, attempting to drag Miller away from any British boot. 

The redhead grabs Laurens by the arm before he takes two steps and knocks him back against the building so Laurens’ head bangs on the wood. Laurens’ knees hit the ground before he even realizes he falls.

“We desist!” Walsh cries. “Please!”

The Hessian kicks Miller again in the stomach and says something in German that must be a curse. 

Laurens holds one hand against his head as he tries to stand up but the ground shifts and heaves in his vision. He gags back in his throat and puts a hand down on the ground to stop himself falling forward. Someone grabs Laurens by the hair, pulling his head around so his neck bends at a painful angle. The redheaded man looks down at Laurens, his face upside down, scruff from a day or two’s neglect on his chin, brown eyes – not Hamilton, nothing like him. 

“You must be a handsome man under this.” He runs a finger down the grime and hair on Laurens’ cheek and chin. Then he tugs hard at Laurens hair again, so Laurens hisses in pain. “But I think I could change that.” He pulls a knife out of his belt and holds it flat against Laurens’ cheek. Laurens sucks in a sharp breath.

“Paulson!”

The redheaded man looks up slowly, only his eyes moving. Laurens looks over as well to Fields holding Walsh by one arm.

“Sir?”

Fields gestures to the barracks with his chin. “Bring them all inside.”

Paulson stands up, heaving Laurens forward with him. Laurens’ heels drag on the dirt, Paulson pulling too fast for Laurens to get his head and feet about him. Miller curses as the Hessian and the shorter man pull him, blood coming from his mouth. The fourth British soldier holds the door open again, shaking his head at them, as if they American prisoners were misbehaving children only. Fields pushes Walsh into the barracks as the rest of them are dragged after.

“Attention!” Fields shouts. 

He takes the knife from Paulson and clangs it against the metal door hinges to quiet any noise in the room. He hardly need have done so; the men in the room very obviously attended to all of the altercation having proceeded outside the barracks prior.

“There,” Fields says to his other men as he pushes Walsh down to his knees.

Paulson shoves Laurens shoulder so he kneels beside Walsh, Miller on Laurens’ other side.

“These men have acted as if mere drunken brawlers! Assaulting British soldiers.” Fields says from behind them. “And shall be punished accordingly. Any who act against a British or crown soldier will suffer similar fates; any who should strike a British soldier, should question a command or behave in any manner we deem inappropriate will also be punished.” Laurens hears him pace behind them, stopping at Walsh’s end. “You will eat what you are given. You will stay where you are put. And you will move when told. I will have none behave otherwise regardless of whatever rank you may call yourselves!”

Laurens looks side long and sees Fields hand Paulson’s knife to the shorter man. 

“Smith.” He whispers something Laurens cannot hear. Then Smith seizes Walsh by his queue, forcing his head forward.

“Leave him,” Laurens pleads. “He only tried to calm us.” Laurens gestures to himself and Miller. “He was no instigator. Please.”

Paulson knocks Laurens in the back with his knee. “Quiet!”

Then Smith starts to saw through Walsh’s hair above the ribbon with the knife. The noise sounds foreign in the silent room, something more that belongs in a field or shop, as the knife moves back and forth through layer after layer of hair. Then Walsh makes a small noise as Smith yanks free the majority of Walsh’s hair. Uneven strands fall down around Walsh’s head, hiding his face. It is only his hair, it is not his flesh, but it feels painful, as if he torn, castrated even, hair a point of pride for all men and something only those of the most intimacy touch. 

Laurens thinks of Hamilton’s hand in his hair, his fingers twisting, tracing Laurens’ hairline, kissing the top of his head, pushing hair away from Laurens’ face in the early morning, the way his voice said ‘honey,’ the first time he saw the true color of Laurens’ hair.

Laurens whispers, “No…”

Then he hears Miller gasp as Paulson grabs Miller’s head. 

“Stop, you –” Miller hisses but Paulson, hacks at Miller’s hair like farmer at sugar cane or a log of wood. 

Miller yelps in pain as the knife nicks his skin. Paulson pulls Millers thick brown locks away from his head far faster than Smith, the hair at the base of Miller’s neck near chopped away to the quick.

Miller mutters, “Hell…” as he plants his hands on the floor, huffing breaths.

Laurens stares at him, Miller’s curls somehow limp and thin as he thinks they never have been before, as if the loss of so much hair weakened the whole.

Then Fields grabs Laurens’ neck, pulling his head back, his other hand tight around Laurens’ hair. “You started this,” he growls in Laurens’ ear.

“I shall remember you,” Laurens hisses back.

Then Fields pushes Laurens head down, pulling his hair taught. Laurens stares at the wood floor, the heads of metal nails rubbed smooth from months of boots and shoes over them. He listens to the scrape of the knife so near. He sees chunks of his hair fall to the floor around him, as if harvesting wheat. He sees it gathering on either side of his knees. Then he feels the last chuck of his hair slice free and fall somewhere he cannot see. Fields grabs at the longer strands around Laurens’ face and rips the knife up quickly, tearing some straight out of Laurens’ scalp. Laurens gasps quietly at the sharp pain. Then he feels Fields step back.

“You are warned,” Fields says to the mass of men.

Someone far back curses, another man hisses, “bastards.” Then Laurens hears the British march away and the door to the barracks open. It slams closed again moments later, the sound of the metal latch on the outside clanging loud. 

Miller stands up abruptly and marches forward through the crowd, hissing angry words. Laurens sees two men come forward to help Walsh to his feet. Laurens sits back on his heels. 

“Sir?”

Laurens glances up at Jackson, his military secretary, now standing above him. Laurens brings up his hand and touches the hair at his brow. He pulls it around before his eyes, his fingers sliding down to the new sheared ends – so much shorter, unfamiliar, his hands falling away into empty air as his abused tresses fall back against his brow. He pushes his other hand up along the back of his head, short chunks of his hair brushing through his fingers. He breathes out harshly.

“Colonel Laurens,” Jackson says softly. “Stand up.”

Laurens does as Jackson asks. He lets his hands fall to his sides. “I am well,” he says quietly.

Laurens wonders what Hamilton should think of him now, not handsome and fine, but dirty, and rough, hair short and person beaten. The shame builds within him so heavy he wants to fall back to his knees and gasp until he can no longer breathe.

 **Day 196**  
Mrs. Doremus stands next to Tilghman as he writes her a receipt for the monies paid to the use of her husband’s house. The hour is early yet but every aide-de-camp works in the office, most having risen an hour or two past.

“Forty,” Tilghman says, handing over to her a bag with coin. “And our thanks.”

She nods. “Indeed, sir.” Then she curtseys and leaves the front room made their office.

The stone house is only one level, small and much like some of the taverns that have held their offices in past months and years. After so long at Ford Mansion and the fine houses of the Schuylers, Hamilton thinks himself grown spoiled. Their departure and the fall of Charles Town bring Hamilton’s sensibilities and efforts squarely back to the realities of the war.

“A letter from General Greene to General Washington,” Meade says as he walks into the room, riding boots on and hat under his arm. He hands the letter to Harrison seated near the fireplace.

Harrison takes the letter, eyes scanning the front. “I hope he should write of British movements.”

“Yes,” Meade says as he hands another letter to Tilghman.

Tilghman looks up at Meade after reading the direction. “General Lincoln?”

Hamilton perks up from where he sits beside McHenry. “Charles Town?”

Tilghman cracks open the letter, speaking as he reads. “He is in Philadelphia now and –”

“Only him?” Hamilton asks. “What of the other officers?”

Tilghman gives Hamilton a look then turns back to the letter. “Congress has called for a court into his conduct in the south, so he cannot –”

“His conduct?”

“Hamilton,” Harrison says, “might you censure yourself for the length of a letter?”

“It is but this,” Tilghman says. “He hopes to join his family in New England.” Tilghman makes a sympathetic noise. “I understand his desire.”

“Does he write of the other officers under parole?” Hamilton asks again.

Tilghman shakes his head as he folds up the letter. “No.” Then he looks to Harrison. “What of West Point? I know the General eager to report on supplies for the fort.”

“I am to it now,” McHenry says.

“And the board of war asks of the General’s status in this regard,” Harrison says. He turns to Hamilton. “Might you begin a draft?”

“But what of the Charles Town prisoners, what of Laurens?” Hamilton says, dropping any pretense of the other officers under Lincoln. “Have we no progress on an exchange?”

Every man in the room turns to look at Hamilton. Hamilton clenches his jaw and keep his gaze on Harrison. He sees Tilghman whisper something to Meade out of the corner of his eye.

“Hamilton, it has been but a month.”

“Longer,” Hamilton insists.

“Barely more than a month and exchanges to do not happen with haste.” Harrison raises both eyebrows. “You know this having been privy to many yourself.”

“They can happen with haste,” Hamilton parrots Harrison. “They could for Laurens. His circumstances.”

“We must concern ourselves more with Springfield now and the battle there with Greene only two days past, a more pressing matter.” Harrison points at Hamilton. “An attack clearly meant for the main body of the army.” He cracks open the letter before him. “As General Greene writes now.”

“We might include to the board of war…” Meade starts to say as he puts his hat down and walks around the larger table to Harrison’s small desk.

“What does Greene say?” McHenry asks.

“Hamilton, could you…” Tilghman starts but Hamilton stands up abruptly from his seat making McHenry jerk in amazement.

“Goodness,” McHenry gasps.

“And we have a new aide-de-camp to – Hamilton…” Harrison stands up as Hamilton moves swiftly to the parlor door. “Hamilton, come now!”

Hamilton closes the door sharply behind him as he steps into the narrow hall. He walks past the stairs to the small annex at the rear of the house which General Washington took for an office. Hamilton raps hard on the door then opens it without entreat from the General. He shuts the door again behind him as General Washington looks up at him from the table he sits at, no desk in this room.

“Hamilton.” His expression appears cautious.

“I wish to speak of Colonel Laurens and his exchange.”

General Washington puts his quill down with a sigh. “And what of it, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“There must be a way we can expediate his exchange.”

“The Generals are first priority.”

Hamilton clasps his arms behind his back. “I understand this, Your Excellency.”

“Laurens is a Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Yes, but Laurens has special circumstances which may speak for his sooner exchange.”

General Washington cocks his head. “Which ‘circumstance’ do you refer to, his father?”

Hamilton nods. “This is but one. His father was president of Congress and is he not also chosen now as an envoy to Holland?”

“That is Henry Laurens, not John Laurens.”

Hamilton sighs heavily, stepping closer to the table. “And John has been spoken of for such appointments himself. Congress proposed he as a special envoy to France.”

“He refused this appointment.” General Washington picks up his quill again. “It has no bearing on his status now and does not change his rank.” 

Hamilton pulls his arms down to his sides again, his hands fisting. “He is not a simple Lieutenant Colonel.”

His Excellency dips his quill in the ink. “I am not insensible to your desires, Hamilton, but I cannot show partiality.”

“Laurens is not just any Lieutenant Colonel!” Hamilton insists again.

“But he is, Hamilton.” General Washington finally stands from his chair, dropping his quill in the inkpot, his fingers pressed against the table top. “He left this office and journeyed south to serve there, to serve as an officer of his rank, no other special position. It was honorable of him and I think highly of him as you do.”

“But you cannot deny him as your aide-de-camp,” Hamilton snaps. “You attempted to persuade him to stay here when he last came north. You wished him as much your aide-de-camp then as he had been in service to you previously. Would you abandon him now?”

“I do not abandon him, sir,” Washington snaps, standing up straight.

“Yet you do,” Hamilton snaps back, his hips near touching the table as he moves forward. “You say he of ‘no special position.’ He was and still would be. Would you not welcome him back to this office, were he here?”

“That is beyond the point.” Washington glares at Hamilton openly now. “You speak as if I could make this happen at a whim and you know this to be untrue. I cannot show favoritism of this kind when I have an entire army under my command.”

“It is not that you cannot, it is that you simply will not!”

“Lieutenant Colonel,” General Washington says curt and cold. “You will restrain yourself!”

“I ask you only to use the authority you have. There are reasons enough to attempt to expediate Laurens’ exchange; his family name, his service in your office, what service Congress may wish for him further. He deserves such! You would think to leave him to languish under parole for perhaps years as our fight continues?”

“He may ‘languish’ under parole as you say but that is a benefit to his rank not offered many other men under capture, in conditions we both know well of. Laurens may be confined but nor will he suffer. Other officers of his rank captured previous deserve their chance at exchange more so.”

“More so?” Hamilton hisses. “Who has done as much as Laurens for our fight, how many battles has he fought? How fervent is his pursuit of the fight and danger brought to his own person when he could have remained here comfortably at desk and pen?” 

“Do not attempt to dishonor this office or the men within it by such comparisons, Hamilton,” His Excellency says sharply.

“I do no such thing. I make known to you how Laurens would serve this war in ever imaginable way, with every aspect of his person and mind and soul when so much could keep him here.” Hamilton thinks of his hands on Laurens, his kiss, the way he looked naked beside Hamilton and said ‘I would not say no’ at Hamilton following him. “He stayed at a desk when he would rather fight with sword. When he fought with sword he was injured, wounded time and again. He petitioned his own state to give up slaves to the fight when he knew the difficulty of such a proposal and the enemies he might make.”

“You repeat what I know,” General Washington says, his jaw tight. “And it is as much as many men have done but this is not how we measure exchange. You know that. I must be impartial, or the balance of the army and Congress could break.”

“You are the Commander in Chief of the army!” Hamilton shouts. “Do you think other lesser Generals do not attempt to use their influence or even members of Congress? What do such ideals gain those you claim to care of?”

General Washington’s eyes widen in offense. “Claim, sir?” His hands clench as tight as Hamilton’s. “You do me a disservice.”

Hamilton plants both hands on the table, leaning forward into General Washington’s personal space. “Laurens is one of your family! Our family!”

“Enough!” General Washington shouts. “I tire of your insubordination!” Hamilton stands up straight. “Your preference for your friend changes nothing and I cannot waste my influence on one man when so many more issues and needs are before us!” He breathes in deeply, his voice quieting but the anger beneath it remains. “You would do well to remember your place in this war and in this office. I will not hear you speak such to me, Lieutenant Colonel, if you should wish to keep your appointment here.”

Hamilton glares at General Washington – the man Laurens revers to much, always speaks well of, respects above so many other Generals of their army – the man who will not help Hamilton’s dear Laurens.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Hamilton growls.

Then he turns around and briskly exits General Washington’s office without being given his leave. Hamilton shuts the door sharply behind himself and shifts quickly around the stairs to the door of the aide-de-camp office. It opens a second before Hamilton may grip the door handle.

“Hamilton!” Tilghman says as he holds out his hand to another man with curly, light brown hair, near Hamilton’s height. “Meet our newest aide-de-camp, David Humphreys.”

Humphreys smiles and holds out his hand. “A pleasure to meet such another distinguished gentleman of General Washington’s office. I believe you were at Trenton so far past, a brave fight, and you have served with His Excellency for several years now! I imagine you one of the most learned and experienced of our army now to have General Washington’s trust and service so long.”

Hamilton shakes Humphrey’s hand fast then twists around him. “Think as you will, but this office is not so disguised as you promote.”

Humphreys turns after Hamilton. “I… cannot…”

“Hamilton, what do you….” Tilghman tries but Hamilton stalks into the office and back to the desk near McHenry.

He sits down heavily and blows out a breath. He stares at the papers McHenry writes, the other man avoiding his eye. Hamilton breathes in and out slowly, trying to think of other arguments, other reasons, other avenues to secure Laurens his true freedom – not a prison ship, he reminds himself, not a jail cell.

“Hamilton?” Hamilton’s eyes tick up to Meade. 

Meade smiles at him with some sympathy and a quirk of his lips. He holds up a letter with Hamilton’s name upon the direction. “For you.”

“Yes?”

“It is personal.” Hamilton’s eyebrows raise higher and Meade grins. “A certain lady.”

The tension in Hamilton’s shoulders eases, worry of Laurens floating away and he takes the letter from Meade’s hand. He sees the delicate curl of Eliza’s writing, the swish of his name from her pen. He smiles again, anger fading and hopes and dreams of the future sliding to the forefront.

“Thank you, Meade.” 

Hamilton shakes his head. Laurens will be exchanged in due time, Hamilton may think more on him later. 

Hamilton runs his hand over the letter. Now, he has happier things to comfort his mind, family and future and marriage. Now, Eliza waits in his hand.

 **Day 196**  
Laurens arrives on a boat to Philadelphia to begin his parole with General Lincoln and his staff, having left Charles Town less than a week past. He disembarks at the busy port wearing his uniform no longer and one trunk to his name. The officers with him quickly say their farewells, meeting friends or family to ferry them to whatever quarters they may have in this city. Laurens does not know the detail of each man’s parole but his own limits him now to the borders of Pennsylvania. 

On the dock, Laurens watches men hauling crates, canvas bags, white, black, men in uniform and men in civilian clothing. Laurens looks down at his own gray coat and breeches, black shoes with simple mental buckles. His cream waistcoat bears a crosshatch pattern and his buttons glint in the sunlight like spent bullets down his chest.

“Mr. Laurens, sir?”

Laurens looks up into the dark face of James, his father’s man.

“James.”

James gives him a long look. He presses his lips together then shakes his head. “Your hair, sir.”

Laurens resists the urge to reach his hand up. His hair is of even length now. Some of his fellow officers helped to fix the ruin the British guards made of the three men. His hair extends only to the tops of his ears, clipped around his head. Laurens thinks he looks like a man giving up on wigs and growing his hair back to a proper length. 

“Yes…” Laurens replies with a sigh. “Shall we?”

“Yes, sir, your father is at home,” James says as he retrieves the trunk brought down by a ship’s mate. “Though he will be about the city soon on business for his trip.”

“Holland,” Laurens says quietly as they walk to a waiting open carriage. “When is he to leave?”

James straps the trunk onto the back of the carriage. “He plans for a ship in early August, sir.”

“An envoy to gain us more funds.” Laurens sighs again as he opens the door to the carriage himself and climbs. He sees a frustrated look on James’ face as he closes the door behind Laurens. “I hope his journey to not be for naught.”

“Indeed, sir.” James then climbs up on the front bench of the carriage beside the driver.

The carriage starts off maneuvering around the other port business slowly until they are able to achieve a more decent trot through the streets. Laurens watches the buildings they pass, the brick wall they follow along the street for several blocks, the rise of a white church spire. He thinks it all appears wrong, not the place he should be, not the bustle and sound of camp. It sounds so very civilian, a normality he finds foreign now instead of the normal it should be. His normal is swords and gun, it is dispatches and ink, it is shouted orders and running feet, it is ground gained or lost, it is officers and soldiers, uniforms and battle plans; it is the headquarters at Charles Town, it is General Washington’s office, it is Hamilton seated beside him at work with pen in hand. It is not this.

“Sir?”

Laurens blinks to see James standing at the carriage door. Laurens realizes the carriage has stopped beside a brick house. He glances up at the three floors, white paint on the wood and a black door. It is half the size of his father’s house in Charles Town but certainly still large by the standards of most men. 

James opens the door of the carriage and gestures to the fold out stairs. “Sir?”

“James,” Laurens says as he stares at the house – another jail. “Do you know there is a law in Philadelphia regarding slavery?”

James’ jaw clenches. “Do you mean as to how Pennsylvania has no slavery?”

“Not exactly,” Laurens says as he pushes his hat back enough to look up at the building – two windows on the first floor, three on the second floor, three on the third and then two slanted windows for what must be an attic. “In Philadelphia, if a slave is a resident for more than six months then he is by the law granted his freedom.” Laurens looks down at James. “How long have you been here now?”

James’ eyes roll up for a moment then he looks back to Laurens. “Four days, sir.”

“Keep count, James.”

Then Laurens stands up and climbs out of the carriage. He walks up to the door as a woman opens it. She is short as Hamilton, darker skin but not such alone. He thinks he even spies freckles just over her nose. Her hair is pulled back with a cap over it, as with most domestic workers, but Laurens sees a few strands of tight curls escaped to hang near her eyes. Her eyes are very dark, a deep brown like coffee.

“Welcome, Mr. Laurens,” she says, a smile on her face which turns thoughtful as her eyes quickly search his face before she shifts around to hold the door for him. “You father is in the rear parlor.”

“I am afraid I do not know you, miss,” Laurens says as James walks past into the hall carrying Laurens’ trunk. “You are not of my father’s usual staff.”

“No, sir, I have just entered his employ.”

Laurens’ eyebrows rise. “Employ?”

“Yes, sir.”

Laurens smiles. She is not a slave. He nods once as he walks through the door. He turns around abruptly, nearly causing the woman to knock into him as she follows. Her eyes widen in surprise but not with fear. 

“And what should I call you?” Laurens asks.

She bobs a half curtsey. “I am Nora, sir.”

Inside the house, the walls are green, the furniture in the formal parlor bears yellow fabric on the chairs and long divan, dark wood tables, books in the far shelves, white paint on the fireplace mantel, the fire grate itself clean as if new. A mirror hangs on the wall just inside the door. Laurens tries not to look but finds his eyes turning despite his efforts. He sees a man with cropped blond hair, clothing that appears a size too large, and shadows beneath his eyes.

“John.”

Laurens turns his head to see his father walking down the hall toward him. Laurens father is not a soft man in his address, not overly affectionate, though he cares. He acts the proper patriarch with each of his children, guiding and directing; he offers his love as needed to his sons and daughters. He follows their lives and ensures the best for them as a father should. He has not taken on any maternal role with the death of Laurens’ mother, not one to coddle or coo. Laurens would not expect him to.

Yet now as he stops before Laurens in the hall, Nora mere steps behind, he pulls Laurens into his arms, hugging him tight and fierce. Laurens stands frozen momentarily in surprise. Then he slides his hands around his father’s sides and hugs him back. His father touches the base of his neck, makes a harsh noise. Laurens breathes in the scent of his father – paper and ink and the earthy smell of rice plants and the Cowper river and the sun baking his father’s clothes when he sits at his desk in Mepkin – of home.

“John.” H. Laurens pulls back to stare at Laurens. He touches Laurens brow, his cheek. “I am…” He breathes in deeply and pulls his hands back again. “I am so pleased to see you well.”

“And I you.”

H. Laurens shakes his head, a grim set to his mouth. “Charles Town… I heard of the British terms, harsh in the extreme.”

Laurens’ eyes shift away. “Yes…”

“I am sorry, son.” Laurens looks back to his father. “It grieves me to know you were forced to endure this and to watch the loss of our home.”

Laurens nods. “Your own house even.”

H. Laurens shakes his head. “It can be fixed. I must maintain my faith that the British can still be beaten and our city reclaimed.”

Laurens nods again, clasping his hands behind his back. “Indeed, sir. I am glad enough you were no longer within the city to be taken captive as well.”

“Yes.” H. Laurens’ hands twitch and he reaches out toward Laurens again before he pulls his hands back abruptly. “I am glad the British terms were not so harsh as to deny officers parole and that you are here safe.”

Laurens presses his lips together tight. “Safe is not what I should wish but I will petition for my exchange as soon as I am able. I would prefer to return to the fight with haste.”

“I should not.” Laurens’ eyes widen. He sees the expression on his father’s face to be one of surprise. H. Laurens masters his features again quickly as he clears his throat. “I mean only that I would not wish you to be accused of any undue favoritism.”

“I only desire to be useful at such a critical time in our war with so many men taken and just as many needed to fight for our cause.”

“And you have been, but now you are under parole and must abide by those terms as a gentleman.”

Laurens nods sharply. “Of course, father.” 

H. Laurens smiles in a proper manner, without humor but authority instead. “We must allow the army and Congress to mediate any exchanges and yours will come in time.”

Laurens wants to argue further, to ask what his father might do, what Laurens could do himself to return quicker to the army and fight the British who take city after city, home after home, who steal pride and utility. Laurens wants to scream that he cannot stay here, he cannot sit in the parlor day after day while his uniform gathers dust, while his friends fight and face danger instead. He wants to demand that his name be put forth, that his exchange is worth more, because he will fight as hard with pen or sword, or in any manner he is able now other than to sit and obey the British bounds of prisoner. He knows he is selfish, he knows he is impatient, but he cannot do nothing, he cannot be idle, he cannot allow himself so beaten, defeated, away from their revolution and ideals and one precious man he wants to hold most of all.

Instead, Laurens says, “Yes, father.”

H. Laurens reaches out again and this time Laurens releases his arms from around where he clasps them. His father takes one of Laurens’ hands and squeezes tight. “I am very pleased to have you here.”

Laurens manages a weak smile but cannot form a reply.

 **Day 200**  
Laurens stands in the entryway at Independence Hall with his hat under his arm. Several other men wait as he does to be called upstairs. Laurens hears the sounds of someone speaking in the main courtroom. He knows Congress to be in session now, likely debating matters of money. Several soldiers walk by with papers in hand, climbing the stairs in a quiet but fierce debate. They remind Laurens of Harrison and Tilghman.

Laurens shifts around, pacing the open space. He looks up at the tower above him, paint peeling near the furthest point and cracks in the wood around the high windows. Laurens looks down again at the pale blue walls, the rounded posts of the wide stairwell bannister. Along the path of the stairs are large bay windows with space in front enough for a man to sit within, should he wish. He imagines Meade curled up in one with a ledger in his lap.

“Laurens?” A man’s voice calls. “Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens?”

Laurens perks up and follows the sound with his eyes to a man standing at the peak of a bend in the stairs. He reminds Laurens of Fitzgerald from the tired but doggedly determined bearing to his face and stance. The man notices Laurens’ attention and gestures up the stairs. Laurens hurries up the steps to where the man leads. 

“Charles Town, on parole, inquiry as to exchange?” He asks over his shoulder as they near one closed door in the upper hall.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He raps his knuckles on the door and stops.

“Come,” sounds from within.

The clerk hands Laurens a piece of paper. Laurens looks down at the page, _I, John Laurens, being made a prisoner of war by the army of Great-British._ Laurens looks up again sharply. The paper is a copy made of Laurens’ parole promise from the British. Laurens grips the door handle and pushes open the door.

“Good morning,” the man inside says even before Laurens may take in the whole of the office. “Sit, please.”

Laurens sits as instructed, piles of papers and ledgers upon the desk, stacks of books on one corner near making a wall. Laurens recognizes a volume on top, ‘Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the Troops of the United States.’ He also sees the blue cover of Baron von Steuben’s drill book which Laurens himself helped write copies for. He remembers Walker and North sitting across from himself and Hamilton, the nervous smile on North and the laugh of Walker, tea in the parlor and confessions for only men like they to understand.

“I am Colonel John Beatty.” Laurens focuses on the man speaking to him. He appears a few years older than Laurens, haggard in appearance no doubt from the pressures of his office. “I understand you are here to inquire as to the possibility of your exchange.”

“Yes, sir.” Laurens holds out the parole paper given to him.

Beatty looks down at the paper as he takes it. “Captured at Charles Town.” He bobs his head. “Yes, of course, as so many.” He puts the paper down on his desk. “And?”

Laurens sits up straighter. “And I wish to discuss the possibility of expediating my exchange.”

Beatty raises one eyebrow. “On what grounds? We attempt to exchange those of highest rank first, as you are aware.”

“I am, sir.”

“You are a Lieutenant Colonel.”

Laurens nods. “And I served as General Washington’s aide-de-camp from the fall of 1777.”

Beatty puckers his lips in thought. “But you were present at Charles Town?”

“Yes, I left his office to join the southern campaign,” Laurens explains. “I am a South Carolinian.”

Beatty’s eyes widen it what looks like realization. “Ah, the son of Henry Laurens.”

Laurens nods, “Yes, I am.”

“Hmm.” Beatty picks up a quill from where it rests at a perilous angle in an inkpot and makes a note on Laurens’ parole form. “A former aide-de-camp to the Commander in Chief is certainly a mark in your favor, Lieutenant Colonel, and your father’s position more so.” 

Beatty looks up again as he puts down the quill toward his inkpot. It just misses its mark and falls on the table instead, leaving a faint streak of ink on some paper. Laurens thinks of Hamilton always blotting his letters properly, tapping ink off the end of his quill when he finished each letter, setting the quill on a stand so as not to unduly mark any piece of paper which could be used. He feels the phantom press of Hamilton’s knee beside his under the table, the ghostly visage of Hamilton’s chin turning toward him and the remembered hue of opal blue eyes.

“I shall put your request before Congress.” Laurens grips his hat tightly in his lap and nods jerkily at Beatty. “However, I cannot guarantee these aspects enough to gain you a nearer date of exchange.”

“I understand.”

“There are many men who still linger as prisoners or under parole from as far back as 76.”

Laurens swallows once, tension rising in his back. How should he manage the shame and uselessness of himself under parole for four years?

“And there are Generals and Colonels whose rank put them before you.” Beatty picks up the quill he misplaced, dipping it in the ink again. “I would suggest you mind the newspapers for any notice we may post of mass exchanges.” He writes a note on a slip of paper, dipping his quill into the ink after every two words, pressing too hard in haste as Lafayette would sometimes do when learning his English. He holds the slip out to Laurens. “Keep this and mention to your father, Congress may inquire after him to any concern of your position.”

Laurens takes the slip of paper, it reads much as a receipt for bills as Gibbs wrote countless times to widows and tavern owners; an acknowledgement of Laurens’ state of parole, his exchange request and the date of his capture with an addendum reading, ‘son of Henry Laurens,’ and Beatty’s signature at the bottom.

“Thank you, Colonel Beatty.”

Beatty nods then gestures to the door. “Good day.”

When he returns home, Laurens climbs straight upstairs to the third floor and the third bedroom that is now his. Laurens places the receipt on the small table beside his bed. The table holds nothing else but a small wooden box. Laurens bought the box his second day in Philadelphia from a wood worker acknowledged as one of the best in skill at decorative carving in the city. He wanted something fine to hold that which he wishes most to protect. Laurens opens the box and pulls out the letters kept within; each one matches the next. He unfolds one to look at Hamilton’s handwriting, not truly reading the paragraphs but noticing words like ‘dear’ as he touches the pages.

“Sir?”

Laurens flips the letters closed between his hands and jerks his head up. Nora stands in the doorway holding a tea service. 

“Tea?” Laurens asks vacantly.

“You looked in need when you arrived home.”

“Did I?”

Nora smiles at him, walking past where he stands to put the tray down in the window sill. “You looked much like your meeting at Congress did not go as you’d like.” She glances over her shoulder. “Am I right, sir?”

Laurens puts the letter away quickly as she turns back to preparing a cup of tea. He snaps the box shut as he says, “You are.”

She turns around again, tea cup and saucer in hand. “Then you may as well restore yourself with this.” She walks over and holds out china to him. “Drink up, sir.”

Laurens takes the teacup from her, seeing the steam rise between them. Her eyes shift to the box on his side table, the slip of paper in front of it. He sees her eyes tick from side to side quickly. Then she looks back to him. She curtseys and walks over to the tea tray. 

He looks at the paper from Beatty then back to her. “You can read.”

Nora stops moving for a breath then turns around, her eyes toward the floor. “Begging your pardon, sir, I could not help but notice it and I was worried at your… well, you looked so very forlorn when you returned.”

“No,” Laurens says, relieving her anxiety. “I am merely…” Laurens feels an ass as he finishes his thought, “surprised.”

Nora laughs once quietly. “At which, sir, my being a woman or my being a black woman?”

Laurens bites the edge of his lip. “At your being concerned.”

Nora laughs again making Laurens’ mouth quirk up minutely. She curtseys once more then turns back to pick up the tray. She walks past him, tray in hand then stops in the door. She turns her head toward him, eyes on the table and Laurens’ box, then up to his person. 

“You lie well, sir, and with kindness.” Laurens’ eyes widen at her frankness. Then she twists around through the door. “Enjoy your tea, Mr. Laurens.”

 **Day 201**  
Hamilton sits in an upstairs bedroom of a house along their march through New Jersey. He was not introduced to the owners so has no idea of their name, but he knows their stay here not intended to be more than a few days. Lafayette shares Hamilton’s small table, two candles lit between them in the twilight. 

“Hamilton, might I claim your eye to my English?”

Hamilton looks up from his own paper and holds out his hand. Lafayette hands over the pencil draft of a letter.

“To whom to you write?”

“Governor Jefferson.”

Hamilton nods. “I think him likely to send more aid if he is able.”

“The question being if he is able and it is not only money we should wish,” Lafayette says, twirling his pencil about in his hands.

“Yes,” Hamilton says as he scans the entreat on behalf of the army for additional men and money from the state’s funds. “They ask us to continue the fight with less and less. Each state must furnish their men. It is for each one we fight.”

“They know this.”

Hamilton glances up. “Do they?”

Lafayette rests his chin on his hand. “I shall remind them each.”

Hamilton smirks and looks at the letter once more, circling a word and correcting a misspelling. “Indeed, with the popularity you have gained, I have hope our suits to be answered.”

“General Washington believes so.”

Hamilton swallows a frown for Lafayette’s sake. “Yes, but answered or fulfilled?”

Hamilton and Lafayette’s eyes meet and both men chuckle. Hamilton marks several more words in need of correcting then turns the paper around on the table, pushing it back toward Lafayette. 

Lafayette nods. “I thank you.”

“I think perhaps you might leave your errors in the future. It should add some charm, so your readers know it is be a genuine entreat from your hand.”

“Ha.” Lafayette moves a clean sheet of paper before himself and picks up a quill from the stand between the candles. “I would only wish to present the army in the most professional of manners.”

Hamilton nods his ascent. “I trust you to do so.”

“And you?” Hamilton looks up even as his head turns back down toward his letter. Lafayette glances at Hamilton’s writing then back to Hamilton’s eyes.

“Laurens.”

“Ah.” Lafayette tilts his head as he dips his quill in his bottle of ink. “His exchange.”

Hamilton frowns. “I have tired my utmost but the General refuses any use of influence to expediate Laurens’ exchange.”

“He has the whole of the army under his command and the majority of the southern force now captured.”

“Yes, and you think Laurens does not merit special consideration?”

Lafayette clicks his tongue. “I think he worthy of an early exchange available to his rank.”

Hamilton frowns. “How diplomatic of you.”

“Hamilton.” Lafayette taps the tip of his pen gently on the edge of his inkpot. “I understand your desire to do as much as possible for your friend, but he is one of thousands now.”

“Of rank!”

Lafayette sighs. “Hamilton, I have no doubt he will obtain a faster exchange than many but even the exchange of Generals happens not in two months.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I hear as you say, and I have argued as much with His Excellency.”

“Argued?”

Hamilton taps his quill on his blotting paper several times until he hears it crack. Hamilton sighs and puts the quill aside. Lafayette raises his eyebrows. Hamilton picks up another quill from the stand, the last one they have.

“It is no matter. Laurens shall certainly be exchanged in due time. I know this, he should know this.” Hamilton frowns as he uses a penknife to sharpen the end of the new quill. “Perhaps he shall learn a measure of patience from such time as he will be in Philadelphia, quell his rash behaviors of battle.”

“I do not think this an exact relation.”

“Laurens is a smart man. He should find a correlation.”

Lafayette writes the date at the top of his page. He presses down a hard point at the end of the line. Then he looks up at Hamilton again. “Do you chide him his captivity?”

“Do I? No.” Hamilton gives Lafayette an offended look. “I simply…”

He simply wishes Laurens to be here, to not write with such melancholy when Hamilton feels so much light and happiness. He wishes Eliza were here with her soft hands, loving smiles and attentive eyes. He wishes she were near enough for him to steal a kiss, to steal away with for an hour’s ride in the wood.

“I understand you feel frustration from all corners,” Lafayette says quietly. “And you have much you wish to say to him…”

Hamilton puts the penknife down. “I must tell him of Miss Schuyler.”

“You must…” Lafayette frowns and shakes his head. “You must tell him of Miss Schuyler?”

“Yes.”

“You have not yet done so?”

“No.”

“So you think to do so now?”

“Yes.”

“While he is under parole, alone and likely despairing of his situation where he could remain for years?”

Hamilton’s lips twist. He glances at his letter, word of his attempts at Laurens’ exchange, news of the war and his despair of the states themselves providing any aid which he thinks more likely from France or Spain. 

Hamilton looks up at Lafayette again. “Yes.” Hamilton grits his teeth, avoiding Lafayette’s searching eye and dips his quill in ink once more. “I have left it too long. It is ridiculous to think such a dear friend should not share in my joy. Such may even ease his sorrow.” Hamilton smiles to himself at the notion. “Yes, he may have his own woes at this time, but he should be able to find some happiness at one so near him finding a lasting happiness and securing a future.” Hamilton looks up at Lafayette accusingly, as if Lafayette has already spoke in censure. “Is that not so?”

Lafayette folds his fingers over his quill. “It is possible.”

“Indeed, it most certainly is,” Hamilton says firmly. “He will be glad of my joy.”

“Do you convince me or yourself?”

Hamilton smacks the table top making Lafayette jolt and wax from their candles drip onto the wood. “I despise this game, Lafayette. Enough of it! You obviously know our situation, you are smart enough!”

“Yes,” Lafayette says quietly.

“I am engaged now. I love Miss Schuyler and I will marry her and I am not apologetic in this! I do not need to be. Am I not deserving of a wife and family as other men?”

“You are.”

“I am!” Hamilton huffs. “You are married. Laurens is married.”

“Yes.”

“And so shall I be.” He blows out a breath. “I adore her. I love her. No one could deny this. I am not false in this affection but nor am I...” He breathes out slowly this time, trying to calm his anger, his confusion, his guilt. “I am sincere and honest in all my affection. I am.”

Lafayette reaches out and puts a hand over Hamilton’s. Hamilton realizes his hand shakes. “Then be honest,” Lafayette says.

“And break his heart?” Hamilton hisses. 

Lafayette stares at Hamilton in blank confusion.

Hamilton looks away toward the lone window of the room, the sun full set now. He pulls his hand out from under Lafayette’s. “You do not understand,” he whispers. 

Hamilton thinks of Valley Forge, one room for them to share, Laurens lying asleep beside him with lips red from kisses and blond hair curled loose around his neck, only a sight for Hamilton to see; no knowledge of Laurens’ distant wife, no Eliza yet present in Hamilton’s heart, only himself and Laurens alone. It is a memory fond and comfortable to return too, but it is not all Hamilton wants now.

“Such news will not break his heart.” Hamilton forces a smile back around toward Lafayette. “I worry unnecessarily. He should be happy for me as any bosom friend would be, as they all have been. He will be the same.”

“As you say,” Lafayette replies, his tone guarded.

Hamilton ignores this and turns back to his letter. “I do say.”

So, he writes of Eliza, of her beautiful dark eyes, and if he calls her less so to Laurens, if he extols her virtues less, then it is certainly only out of a desire to tell Laurens all the more thoroughly in person when Laurens should see all the truths of Hamilton’s heart upon his face.

 **Day 206**  
The morning’s letters arrive while Laurens and his father still sit at breakfast. His father receives the more considerably sized pile while Laurens receives two letters; a response to an inquiry about some items for the house, candles, ink, linens and a personal letter from Alexander Hamilton.

Laurens’ father pushes his plate away from himself as he stands. “I am to speak with Congress this morning more on my mission. It appears John Adams may have traveled there under similar aims as mine shall be.” Laurens glances up at him, the more pertinent letter clutched in his hand. “I shall not return until dinner, I imagine.”

“I see,” Laurens murmurs in reply.

“And your plans?”

Laurens glances up again, not realizing his eyes dragged down to the unopened latter. He shakes his head. “I have none.”

H. Laurens gives him a firm look. “I have filled this house with some books and they could be read. Better your mind not remain idle as your person must.”

Laurens clenches his teeth and nods. “Yes, father.”

H. Laurens nods back then turns from the breakfast table and out into the hall. Laurens listens to his father’s feet at he nears the door, something he says to Nora, then the slam of the front door. Laurens stands up. He looks down at his half-drunk coffee and the majority of the food remaining on his plate. He breathes in once then walks around the table and out the door toward the stairs. In his bedroom, Laurens closes the door, not quite latching it. He walks over to the desk, sits, then cracks open the wax seal. He unfolds the pages and smiles at once from the familiar script.

_I received my Dear Laurens a letter from you…_

“Dear,” Laurens says aloud to himself. 

Laurens reads the letter slowly, not wanting to miss a word, hoping for some good sign. He knows himself selfish, rash even, to hope General Washington or Hamilton able to force through his exchange inordinately fast but only after a month trapped in Philadelphia he chafes at his idleness, his restriction, his failure, and his mood falls lower with each day. 

As he reads, Laurens reaches a passage much of his thoughts, as though Hamilton should have heard them at his distance.

_Don’t appear too impatient of your situation nor too solicitous of being freed from it. Though I should be satisfied you acted from a laudable desire to be useful; others might give your conduct a construction to your prejudice. You must not have the air of bearing captivity worse than another._

Laurens tips his head back, blowing out a breath. He stares at the simple molding bordering the ceiling around the room. He tells himself to listen, to take heed, to bear on.

“Of course, Hamilton,” he mutters to himself. It should be no surprise Hamilton would know his mind in this respect.

Then Laurens reaches the final paragraph. He stops half way through and forces himself to go back, to reread the words.

I give up my liberty to Miss Schuyler… 

Laurens’ hands clutch the page hard enough that nothing at all could tear it away as he deliberately reads the whole of the passage in Hamilton’s unmistakable hand.

_I confess my sins. I am guilty. Next fall completes my doom. I give up my liberty to Miss Schuyler. She is a good hearted girl who I am sure will never play the termagant; though not a genius she has good sense enough to be agreeable, and though not a beauty, she has fine black eyes—is rather handsome and has every other requisite of the exterior to make a lover happy. And believe me, I am lover in earnest, though I do not speak of the perfections of my Mistress in the enthusiasm of Chivalry._

_Is it true that you are confined to Pennsylvania? Cannot you pay us a visit?_

Laurens blinks as he looks at the page. “Us?”

His eyes lose focus over the words and his gaze shifts away from the paper to the wood floor and the edge of his shoe. He knows what he read. He knows what the letter said. His mind wants to skitter away from it, pretend it did not happen, hide away. He forces himself back to it, to think it succinctly in simplistic words: Hamilton is engaged to be married. 

Laurens abruptly stands up from the desk causing his chair to wobble precariously. He walks stiffly across the room as he folds up the letter once more. He stops beside his bed and opens up the box beside it. He sees his name on the cover of the first letter within. Then he places the newest letter on top. He fits the letter inside, edges aligned, and closes the box. Laurens grips the corners of the closed box, staring at the carving of foliage on the top – vines twisting elegantly, an elaborate pattern, tangling as he stares at then, tightening into knots, choking. 

Laurens yanks the box up from the small table, flings open the door to his bedroom so it hits the wall with a crack, steps out onto the landing and heaves the box from the landing over the stairs. The box hits the mirror hanging on the wall with one corner, the glass breaking around the circle of where the box hit while the box bounces off to rebound once more off the stair railing. A few pieces of glass from the center of impact fall to the floor with the box. The box, however, does not appear to be broken. Laurens all but throws himself around the short railing and down the stairs to the next landing. He picks up the box and throws it at the mirror again, more shards falling down around him. The box clatters off the wall this time, nearly starting to roll down the stairs to the second floor. Laurens, however, grabs it up a third time and heaves it wildly at the mirror with a cry that sounds half a sob and half a scream. The box hits the far side of the mirror, the last of the glass breaking and falling from the frame. The box finally succumbs to its abuse, the lid flying open, one hinge snapped off and all the letters inside tumbling to the carpeted floor. The mirror frame shakes and swings until finally falling from the wall with the force of so many impacts. The mirror slams straight down onto the floor, inches from Laurens’ feet making him stumble back against the stair railing. Laurens jumps out of the way toward the steps up to the third floor as the frame falls forward and lands flat onto the floor.

Laurens leans against the wall breathing heavily, staring at the ruin before him. Broken glass mingles with pieces of paper, most of the letters still folded together but a few with the pages scattered about. Laurens slides to his knees and grasps at the pages – the older letters, the safe ones, the ones speaking adieu, I love you, my heart, my dear, my dear, my dear. He grasps glass and paper, tearing at his skin as he tries to pull the memories toward him. His balance shifts despite himself and he falls back against the wall, seated on the floor with paper in his hands.

_My dear, my dear, my dear._

Why did Laurens leave south again? Why did he have to fight? Why was he captured? What has he done to make Hamilton pull so far from him? Why has Hamilton done this? Did he not understand what Laurens said before, what he meant? Is this retribution?

Hamilton berated him. Hamilton blamed him. All over a wife Laurens does not want and said so. Hamilton hated him in a moment, in months, over Laurens’ lies and absence and his own cowardice to lose Hamilton. And now, And now, and now…

Laurens wants to curse. He wants to scream. He wants to –

“Sir!”

Laurens sees a face before him – a woman, a woman that Hamilton wants, a woman Hamilton plans to wed, a woman taking Hamilton away from Laurens, a woman taking his Alexander.

“He’s engaged,” Laurens says, thrusting the letters up toward her. “Engaged. I – I do not. Why?” Laurens groans back in his throat and hits his head against the wall. He wants to say words, ask questions, something to get this out, instead he makes a noise – like a guttural moan, a soul ripping sound ending in a sob and cascading up high like a scream before it falls down once more – he cannot understand the sound as himself.

“Oh, sir, please let go!” 

“Why?” Laurens says desperately now because it seems so unreal – but it is as real as any battle and of course Laurens knew, he knew, he must have. “I did this to him, I did it first and so he does it back to me – I…” 

“Sir, stop!”

Laurens shakes the letters at her. “Why would – of course he could, of course – Oh Lord, I should not have –” 

A hand slaps him hard across the face.

Laurens sucks in a surprised breath. He stares at Nora’s face – Nora, not some other woman he has never met – mere inches from his own. His cheek burns more from the shock, he thinks, than anything else. It is then he realizes she grips his hands between them and they hurt.

“Let go, sir,” she says.

Laurens slowly uncurls his fingers. Nora pulls the paper out from his grasp – one folded letter and two separate sheets. Laurens sees spots of red on the folded letter and on one of the sheets. Small bits of glass fall out of the sheets and Laurens looks down to see more glass imbedded in his hands. The red on the sheets is his own blood.

“Oh… oh, I… I did not…”

“You are well,” Nora says quickly. “It is not much. Let me get a cloth.”

“I… did not intend…”

“Of course not, sir,” she mollifies him. “Allow me to –” She starts to stand, the letters still in her hand.

“No!” Laurens says sharply, grabbing for the papers she holds.

Nora jerks in surprise, nearly falling over, but she keeps her balance, taking one step back. “Here.” She puts the letters up on the step near his arm. “They are here. I shall find you a cloth. Please stay there, sir.”

She whirls around and rushes back down the stairs. Laurens watchers her skirts disappear, her hair in some disarray, which he worries himself the cause of. He did not hurt her, did he? Laurens looks down at the glass, the now useless gilt frame, the broken box and all of Hamilton’s letters.

“Oh no… damn.”

Laurens rises up to his knees and picks up the nearest pages, folding them up and placing them with the others on the stairs. He edges over the carpet, pushing back glass, and lifts up the fallen frame. He leans it back against the wall from where it fell. A few miserable shards of glass cling in the bottom left corner, not quite dislodged. A great deal more glass covers the floor under where the frame had fallen. Laurens fishes through it to pick up the folder letters, careful no blood from his hands should mark them too, setting each one aside on the stairs.

“Sir, stop,” Nora appears again and Laurens wonders how she moved so quickly. She reaches for his hands, crouching in a spot free of glass near him. “Allow me.”

Laurens tries to grip her hands as she presses the damp cloth against the cuts in his palms. “Nora, did I hurt you?”

She looks up at him, clearly surprised. “No, sir.”

“I would not,” he insists. He is not a slaver; he is not his father. He needs her to know. “I would not hurt you. If I did now –”

“You did not,” she says firmly then turns his palms up for him to see. “Only yourself.”

Laurens looks down at the crisscrossed cuts on his palm and over some of his fingers. It is fortunate none appear too deep. He did not accidentally grab any of the larger shards in his frenzy. Nora picks a few remaining pieces of glass from his skin with tweezers she must have run to obtain, dropping them to the floor.

“There may be smaller pieces still,” she says, looking up at him again. “Do you feel any?”

“I do not know.”

She nods. “It shall have to be then. We will need to bandage your hands as they are.”

“The glass it –”

“I shall attend to it.”

“The letter – my letters…” Laurens suddenly reaches out and picks up the broken box.

The lid is skewed but not detached. One of the hinges is missing, somewhere among the glass now. The second hinge hangs on, if somewhat bent. Laurens pushes the lid back into alignment, running his fingers over the edges of the wood. The corner which must have hit the mirror at least once bears a dent now, not as noticeable as Laurens may expect.

“It can be fixed.” 

Laurens looks up at Nora. She holds her one hand out for the box, the other holding the remaining letters. Laurens abruptly shoves the box into her hand. She holds out the letters toward him in turn, palm up with only her thumb holding them in place. He realizes she treats him now much like a bird which may fly away if startled.

“I am well,” Laurens admits quietly, ashamed of his outburst, at being caught in his sorrow by this near stranger. “Thank you, Nora. You may leave me.”

“Sir,” she says carefully. “I would prefer to at least bandage your hands.” She tilts her head. “If you will allow me?”

Laurens does not say no.

Laurens carries the letters back upstairs as Nora disappears with his broken box. She returns just as he sits on the edge of his bed, the letters placed loose on his side table. She kneels at his feet with a basin of water and a bundle of cloths. She wipes the last of the blood from his hands, dipping a rag in the warm water. Laurens wonders if the water was meant for tea or some other cooking as there could be no way she would have had time to boil more so quickly. She starts to wind some cloth around his palm, over the base of injured fingers. He watches the frizz of her hair, pieces free from the tight bun, no cloth cap on her head as usual to hide most of it. She must have run quickly at the sounds he made.

“Nora,” Laurens starts, his voice stable once more. “What I said when you found me. I understand it may have sounded in some manner confusing or suspect, but I assure you –”

“I understand, sir,” Nora says, cutting him off in her blunt, forward manner he is beginning to recognize. Laurens wonders if he should rebuke her such but how could he now? But then she leans back on her heals and looks up at him. “I understand certain types of relations between men.”

Laurens clenches his teeth. “Nora…”

“If you can understand, sir, as I know men do not always take such interest or notice in women…” Laurens tries to keep his face calm, impassive, but Nora smiles at him more, moving to dress the wounds on his other hand. “I would tell you that sometimes women do not take such notice of men. Some women prefer the kind of relations, the kind of affection only women can provide.”

Laurens frowns, staring at the bits of messy waves loose near her face. “I do not understand.”

She looks up at him. “Yes, you do.” She ties off the bandage in his palm so he hisses. “Some men prefer men in certain ways not common, yes, but some women prefer the same of other women.”

He stares at her. He wonders why he had never thought of such before. He never though much of women beyond the obligation one should become and their sphere removed from his own. He never thought of women like he. Yet if he should have desires such as he does, why not they too?

“You?” Laurens replies quietly.

She swallows once, her eye turning toward his stack of letters. She glances up at him then away again and she suddenly does not seem the stable savior she has been of his past fifteen minutes. Then she speaks, her voice far softer. “If I may be bold to ask, sir, what is his name?”

Laurens knows what he should answer, what he should say, the refusals he should make but he also thinks that Nora may have saved him just now and Laurens has felt enough betrayal today. He whispers back, “Alexander.”

Nora breathes out slowly then stands up, the remaining cloths and basin in her hands. Her eyes remain on the floor, a smile on her face. “Mine was Lucy,” she says. Nora curtsies and moves toward the door. “You should rest, sir, do not use your hands again soon.” 

Then she disappears out the door leaving Laurens alone with knowledge he did not expect and a pain cutting deep in his stomach as he stares at the one letter on top of the pile.

Late that evening at supper, his father not returned for dinner, H. Laurens asks about the missing mirror on the third level landing. Nora clearing the plates replies, “It seems the rope holding it frayed, sir, and it broke when it fell.”

H. Laurens huffs in irritation. “Is that so? You did not happen to fall against it and cause it to break, perhaps?”

“She did not,” Laurens says quickly and curtly. “I heard it fall and found it first, as you see of my hands. Nora was out for the afternoon larder supply. Sometimes things break without any fault, father.”

H. Laurens frowns at Laurens but makes no reply as he flips a page in his papers from Congress. Nora flashes a covert smile at Laurens as she exits the room with their finished plates and he knows her now to be an ally. Laurens wonders with some fear and shame what worse he may have done had Nora not appeared when she did on the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References of note:
> 
>  
> 
> [To George Washington from John Laurens, 25 May 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-01866)  
> [From John Laurens to Henry Laurens, 25 May 1780](https://books.google.com.ph/books?id=x2CevkQ720gC&printsec=frontcover&dq=inauthor:%22Henry+Laurens%22&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwim8smIt6DWAhUBy7wKHcNaCtIQ6AEIOzAE#v=snippet&q=Ternant&f=false)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, [30 June 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0742)  
> [Battle of Springfield](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Springfield_\(1780\))  
> [John Beatty](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Beatty_\(Continental_Congress\))  
> [Prisoners of war](https://www.mountvernon.org/library/digitalhistory/digital-encyclopedia/article/prisoners-of-war/)  
> [Calendar of Correspondence, June 25th 1780](https://archive.org/details/chiefcontinental02washrich/page/1374)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, possibly triggering sections in this chapter.

**Day 220**  
“Pause your writing for but five minutes, Hamilton.” Hamilton looks up from his page to Tilghman sitting at the table with Harrison and Humphreys. “You have written all day.”

“This is personal,” Hamilton says, gesturing to the letter on the desk before him.

“Personal,” Tilghman parrots. “But still writing.”

“I think Tilghman means to point out you to be deserving of a break from such,” Harrison says with uncharacteristic levity. “If only for the sake of your hand.”

“You wrote another letter earlier, did you not?” Humphreys asks. “To your fiancée? And, Colonel Tilghman is correct, you have written much today.”

“As have we all,” Harrison adds, picking his glass of claret from the supper repast on the table.

“Yes, socialize with those present,” Tilghman adds, picking up salted pork left over from their afternoon dinner.

“I write to Laurens,” Hamilton insists. “Do you not think him worthy of my notice with his position under capture?”

“Parole,” Harrison and Tilghman say together.

Tilghman looks sharply at Harrison, his eyebrows raised. “This is odd. You take the place of Meade now.”

“My voice is lower,” Harrison says, sipping his wine.

“What place of Colonel Meade’s should Colonel Harrison take, Colonel Tilghman?” Humphreys asks.

“Harrison is well enough,” Harrison says.

“Yes, keep all your Colonel’s Humphreys, we are not Generals and of a rank with you.”

Hamilton turns back to his letter as the men banter of titles. Laurens has not written to Hamilton since Hamilton’s letter of June 30th. It has been almost three weeks since and, while Hamilton will allow some days in response to a letter and obvious time traveled, their states abut each other’s and yet no response. Perhaps a letter miscarried.

“Or perhaps he chooses not to reply,” Hamilton mutters as he dips his quill in his ink once more. He writes,

_I have not forgotten your request for my presence and do long in my own heart to see you in person, especially at so short a distance between us as Pennsylvania and New Jersey. I could do much in Philadelphia, solicit additional aid of Congress, the states shirking some duties required of them. I am even in need of a new hat. But it would be your person that I am most desirous to find in this city. Yet, while I have requested leave to venture to your quarter, you being bound as you are, General Washington has not granted myself leave even to visit my dear Eliza in Albany._

Hamilton scratches out ‘dear Eliza’ and writes, ‘fiancée.’ He stares at the sentence, chewing his lip. Then he crosses out half the sentence.

_While I have requested leave to venture to your quarter, you being bound as you are, General Washington thinks my duties too valuable to allow me leave of any kind._

Hamilton nods to himself, tapping his quill point on a blotting paper.

“And His Excellency wrote to General Greene today on this count,” Harrison says. “If it is so we may see some relief to our want of supply.”

Hamilton turns to look over his shoulder. “What be true?”

“Ships,” Tilghman says absently, as if Hamilton’s presence be no longer necessary. 

“Yes,” Humphrey’s jumps in, twisting in his chair, having his back to Hamilton where he sits. “The additional French fleet is said to consist of eight ships of the Line, two frigates and two bombs and upwards of five thousand men!” Humphrey’s grins. “It is a possibility of superiority at sea and would allow for an ease of transport of our own men.”

Tilghman nods and looks to Hamilton again. “As you should know having written to Rochambeau.” Hamilton gives Tilghman a glare which Tilghman returns with only a pout. “If you should think my company unneeded why should I seek that of yours?”

“Perhaps, I think without Meade’s presence you dull in my estimation,” Hamilton counters.

Tilghman eyes widen.

“Hamilton, do not take your jesting into the boundaries of insult.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows at Harrison. “No, you are true. I could never think Tilghman dull, only needy in his requests.”

Tilghman frowns. “I ask you but to put your pen down to eat your fill and laugh with your friends.”

“Soon,” Hamilton promises.

He turns to his letter once more. He dips his quill in the inkpot but pauses with the pen suck deep in the ink. He stares at what he wrote thus far, greetings and mentions of a lack of letter, reminder of Laurens’ desired visit. He wishes he were writing to Eliza once again, the easy flow of such conversation between man and woman – concern of her health and compliments to her virtues and hopes for their marriage. It comes from his pen and mind with so much more ease than writing to Laurens in this moment; Laurens who has not written back yet after Hamilton’s declaration of his future joy, Laurens who has only written of his sorrow at capture, Laurens who may hate Hamilton now.

Hamilton frowns to himself and pulls his pen from the ink well, dripping some ink on the metal of the container. He glares at the mess but leaves it and he puts his pen to paper once more.

_If you should think me inconstant now at the news of my pervious letter then I think you unjust in your sentiments. Do you not possess a wife yourself? Did you not deny me such similar knowledge? Should you not think it better now that I tell you myself of my designs and future? Would you rather an accident bring such knowledge to your hands as you did such to me?_

Hamilton closes his eyes after his several minutes of fevered writing. He presses his lips together tightly and tells himself, ‘you care for him, he cares for you.’ He opens his eyes again to the anger on the page, the resentment, the bitter feelings he has still kept buried in hiding even after Laurens’ apologies and revealed truths. Hamilton scratches a line through the whole paragraph and slides it to the side. He will have to start over.

“Gentlemen.”

Hamilton turns abruptly at the sound of General Washington’s voice. McHenry stands beside him carrying a carafe of what appears to be more wine.

Tilghman cocks his head as they stand in only half attention as it is late in the evening now. “Port?”

McHenry smiles. “Ah no, something a bit more refined.”

General Washington chuckles. “I did not say it refined.”

“It takes two weeks to brew, does it not, General?”

“Time does not make a thing refined.”

“Indeed,” Tilghman says as they all sit once more, Harrison retrieving chairs for the General and McHenry. “Look to Hamilton.”

“Tench,” Hamilton growls. “You try my patience.”

“And you mine.”

“Now sirs!” Humphreys says, his voice all consolation and mediation. “Might we not bury such an unnecessary hatchet? You are fellow officers and aides, are you not? And the General brings us a special brew of some kind. Be merry once more.” He casts his smile back and forth between the two men, much a concerned child at bickering parents.

Hamilton folds the ruined letter before him into a tight square and puts it into his jacket. “I shall do as you ask.”

“And as I should ask,” General Washington says as he sits a few feet away from the too small table, McHenry pouring him a glass of the new drink. “I would prefer the men of my office to rest in some equitable measure to their work load.”

“Indeed,” Harrison says, passing some candied fruit to General Washington. “It is but that both men find their favored companion absent and take such morose feeling out on their other friends.”

Hamilton’s eyes shift down to the floor, a tingle in his fingers for a hand to hold.

“And which should you mean?” McHenry asks. “Hamilton’s fiancée or Laurens?”

“I should think both,” Tilghman says just as Harrison replies with, “certainly he needs both.”

Hamilton’s eyes tick up again. He wonders what Lafayette should say as such casual assertions, at such accuracy none of these men should know. Hamilton does indeed need both, wants both – one lost to Albany and kept away by Hamilton’s’ duties and the other to Philadelphia and to the bounds of civilized warfare.

“And Meade shall return to you, Tilghman,” McHenry chastises. “He is but gone to secure his own fiancée.” McHenry huffs. “I think this office concerned more with women than the war in these months!”

“Matters of the war still intersect with our wives and families, McHenry,” General Washington replies, with mild sternness to his tone. “They are not entirely separate.”

“You should certainly not say so to Lady Washington,” Tilghman says with a ‘tut tut’ to McHenry.

McHenry pulls himself up taller and only nods as he pours the last glass of the General’s new spirits. He holds it out toward where Hamilton still sits at the desk against the wall. The other men all turn their heads toward him. Hamilton could refuse, he could take his pages and begin his letter anew above stairs and bring some comfort to Laurens. But the room is warm with the July weather, friends are around him, and Laurens has not deigned to write Hamilton back himself.

“Thank you, McHenry,” Hamilton says as he stands and steps close to the table, taking the offered glass. “And what is this I drink, General?”

General Washington grins. “Cherry Bounce, it is a favorite of mine.”

“Then it must be of quality,” Harrison says taking a drink.

General Washington nods. “I am glad to have the respect of my taste.”

Harrison makes a ‘hmm’ noise in confirmation. “I have eaten at your house. I cannot doubt it.”

Hamilton sips the liquid, a sweet, cherry flavor with a hint of alcohol. The General is not favored toward drinking of liquor and certainly not to excess. This must certainly be an exception. Hamilton can think it easily leading to a drunkenness one does not expect if a man were not careful.

“There now,” Tilghman says, grinning at Hamilton. “Drink in hand and returned to this office around him instead of his papers. Welcome back, Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles. “I take your jest as you intend now, Tilghman, and I will happily sit and laugh with you all until lack of light sends us to sleep.”

Humphreys laughs and says something about candles which makes McHenry chastise unnecessary waste of supplies. General Washington takes another drink of the cherry concoction and talks of the French fleet, Harrison mentioning Lafayette and the delicate balance of French prides in the officers they send. McHenry counters with no such haughty pride seen in Lafayette while Humphreys tries to interject with questions of personalities, Tilghman replying with humor and seriousness at once. Hamilton allows the sound to watch over him, as comforting and companionable as any freezing night they had back at Valley Forge with the family tight and near – Laurens at his side, legs touching, Lafayette telling stories, Fitzgerald’s deep laugh, Meade trading barbs with Tilghman, Harrison losing the fight of father figure. He feels the same companionship now – ignores his anger with General Washington, impatience with Laurens, absence of Betsy.

“When Meade returns, he should be displeased to have missed this,” Tilghman says to General Washington, holding up his glass. “Delicious.”

“I should prefer the port,” McHenry says quietly.

Harrison chuckles and Humphreys gives McHenry a surprised look. “Indeed?”

Hamilton shakes his head. “McHenry is not sweet enough for such a bled.”

McHenry snorts and shoots Hamilton a look. “Or perhaps not stern enough for such a liquor.”

“Have little fear,” General Washington says. “I shall keep for myself what you men cannot endure.”

Every man around the table laughs at this, even Hamilton.

When Hamilton writes his letter again, late in the evening, candle lit and glasses on his face. He copies lines of greeting and business, he leaves less bitterness on the page. He writes with the patience he can muster.

_Though you may think me in too busy a state to read or appreciate what letters you may send, I remind you this is not the case and I should always have time to give to any words you would write me. I urge you to do thus in turn, for how should I know the state of your person without this as we are confined apart? You may think yourself downtrodden but you are at liberty to write. I remind you that though you be on parole you are safe and though I be far, I am still holding you in my heart. Keep me in yours._

**Day 222**  
Hamilton works alone in the office, the army still stationed in Wayne, New Jersey, and the Bloomsburg Manor, in the late afternoon, though the sun not yet set. General Washington took McHenry and Humphreys from the office an hour past. Harrison also left with some accounts to settle with Gibbs. Tilghman and Meade, Hamilton has no knowledge of. 

Hamilton himself writes slowly, a fair copy before him. He thinks of his Betsy, the curl of her hair upon her brow. It seems years since he has seen her or touched her hand. He wishes his duties would not keep them from a sooner matrimony but he also relishes the thought of marriage during the Christmas season. He wooed her in the cold and snow and to marry her in the same feels fortuitous.

“Soon, Eliza,” Hamilton mutters to himself.

Then a sharp knock comes at the front door of the mansion. Hamilton raises his eyes as a servant of the army goes to answer the door. When Hamilton hears the heavy breath of what must be a courier, he stands from his desk.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” the man at the door says between huffs. He holds out a letter as the servant backs out of the way. “Urgent correspondence from Elizabeth Town.”

Hamilton quickly takes the letter, His Excellency’s name upon the direction. “Thank you, Private,” Hamilton replies.

He twists around and marches back into the office as he cracks open the letter. It is from Elias Dayton, a man of their intelligence network. The letter states that fifty British ships have set sail toward Rhode Island. The French fleet and many Continental forces wait now in Rhode Island.

“They should have no warning,” Hamilton breathes out.

“Hamilton?”

Hamilton looks up at Tilghman and Meade in the doorway.

Tilghman grins. “A letter from your lady?”

“I think not,” Meade teases. “He should have more red to his cheeks were it a letter containing declarations of such love.”

“It is a fleet,” Hamilton says. He turns on the spot and hurries back to his desk, nearly knocking over an inkpot in his haste to find a fresh sheet of paper.

“A fleet of ladies?” Tilghman jokes.

“What fleet?” Meade asks more seriously.

“The British!” Hamilton snaps as he leans over the desk. 

He has to write General Rochambeau; Hamilton has to warn him to retreat. Much of the French force is ill in health or ill in preparation. They should not win such a fight and certainly not one come as a surprise.

“The British what?” Meade asks as he walks over beside Hamilton, Tilghman a step behind. “Speak, Hamilton.”

Hamilton holds up the letter as he dips his quill in the ink. “Fifty ships bound toward the French ships we just obtained.”

“What?” Tilghman replies in alarm. “When?”

“Wednesday,” Hamilton says. “They could arrive in four days, less.”

“Where is the General?” Meade asks.

“He is not here!” Hamilton snaps just as Tilghman replies, “Away, he should not return until this evening.”

“Perhaps we should wait for –”

“We do not have such time,” Hamilton insists. 

“Should the General wish us to act in his name?” Meade asks.

Hamilton frowns, his quill paused in hand. “We do so every day.”

“Under his council and review,” Meade insists.

“Not in entirety,” Tilghman says, siding now with Hamilton. “I am still hesitant to cause alarm if this report be uninformed and should General Rochambeau listen without the General’s own signature?”

“Dayton is a trusted source and his intelligence sound,” Hamilton argues.

“When the General returns this evening…” Meade starts.

“We cannot afford such a loss of hours,” Hamilton interrupts, as he starts to write despite his fellow aide’s reluctance. “We do not know the true speed of the fleet and the time the French should need to retreat. No… no.” Hamilton throws down the quill. “This is too slow. I should ride myself.”

“What?” Tilghman cries in the same instant Meade hisses, “Hamilton…”

Hamilton is tried of sitting in this office. He is tired of only a pen in hand, only paper before him. He wishes action, he wishes a horse beneath him, he wishes the adrenaline of intelligence needed in hand. He desires the rush he had at Brandywine or Monmouth or at a nameless mill, in the Schuylkill River, in the woods near the British lines, the rush of the fight with Laurens beside him, the possibility of command and glory and not frustrated hopes. 

“I will ride myself,” Hamilton says again as he weaves around the desk, pushing past Meade and Tilghman to find his hat. “I have Dayton’s letter. I might ride to the French and warn them of the approach. I can assist in their retreat. We cannot waste time in the writing of a letter.”

“Dayton wrote a letter,” Meade cautions, following Hamilton about the room as Hamilton picks up his hat and puts it on his head. “There are still several days. It is urgent yet but –”

“But what? Someone must ride.”

“And why you?” Tilghman asks, following on Hamilton’s other side as he exits the aide office into the wide front hall.

“Why not me?” Hamilton asks as he searches for his riding gloves in a basket near the door.

“Meade is a faster rider.” Hamilton looks up sharply at Tilghman. Tilghman raises his eyebrows. “Write the letter you moved to begin and send it with Meade.”

“I am ready and able,” Meade adds.

“As am I,” Hamilton attempts to pull open the door but Tilghman slams his hand hard against it, knocking it shut once more. “Tench!”

“You act rashly and irrationally!” Tilghman snaps. “You should need to remain to tell the General of this intelligence, to help decide on action after this point. You are needed here. And I do not discount Meade,” Tilghman says in a rush as Hamilton opens his mouth once more to protest. “But we both would agree your knowledge and council and pen of more import after this.”

“I…”

“We will need to send further reports, even organize a retreat or if the General should wish to attempt a counter attack, there are any number of outcomes or plans needed and your writing best, your intelligence man, what should the General say of you gone when another could easily ride?”

Hamilton’s eyes tick between the two men, both staring at him, Meade offering no objection. Hamilton pulls his hand away from the door handle. Tilghman slowly slides his hand down the door. He nods once at Hamilton.

“Yes,” Hamilton says quietly – his mind catching up, the truth of what they should need to do. “You are right.” His stares at the floor thinking fast. “I may write to Lafayette.” He looks up at the other men again. “He is near in Connecticut and should believe my word. He may muster his own men, tell the French troops at least as a beginning to retreat.”

“Yes,” Tilghman says, an impressed look upon his face.

“And when the General returns we may do more,” Hamilton finishes. “Now I may write to Lafayette to warn him. He may also have intelligence of his own and he can convince Rochambeau should he write or ride himself.”

“French trusting the French?” Meade quips with minor levity.

Hamilton turns back into the office, sitting quickly at his desk. He picks up the quill and writes to Lafayette, a warning of the British fleet, the truth of this being his own decision and the General not yet informed.

“What if the French fleet should choose to fight?” Meade asks quietly as Hamilton writes.

“They will not,” Tilghman replies. “Rochambeau has favored caution thus far after his arrival and has not begun a fight.”

“What if they are forced into such?” Meade asks instead.

“They will not be.” Hamilton signs his name and blows on the ink, his eyes shifting up to the other two men. He holds up the letter. “They will take heed. Our Lafayette will ensure such.”

Tilghman seals the letter as Meade finds his gloves and saddle bags, sending a servant for his horse. Hamilton watches as the two men walk to the door, the letter now in Meade’s hand.

Hamilton knows with an odd certainty that, had he been present, Laurens would have ridden north to warn Lafayette and their troops no matter what any of them might have protested. Was such a desire in Hamilton his own or an urge to act as the man he misses? Does he act as Laurens now because he desires the passion and fervor Laurens always brought to their office and to Hamilton himself? Does Hamilton fear he might not find such again when he sees Laurens face to face once more?

 **Day 231**  
John Laurens walks down a muddy Philadelphia street in the early morning toward his only errand of the day. He sent his letter of the morning before he left the house, another inquiry to Congress about the progress of his exchange and a personal letter to Ternant as to his own status and welfare. In the pocket of his light brown coat, Laurens carries a letter received by him from the day previous.

“Lieutenant Colonel Laurens.”

A man touches his hat toward Laurens as they pass on the street. Laurens nods back to him, recognizing him as a fellow Colonel from the Charles Town siege, likely spending his parole in the same manner as Laurens. Laurens does not stop for any conversation, however, but strides purposefully on his way. 

His hand brushes over the fine silk of his coat near the pocket, not quite touching the letter from Hamilton within, feeling its corners and edges through the fabric. His hand twitches with the desire to pull it forth once more, read its contents again, but there lies nothing horribly painful or equally pleasant within. 

“Why, Mr. Laurens the younger.”

Laurens stops before a man blocking his path, a walking stick in his hand which he holds up as he bows before Laurens. Laurens bows back out of trained politeness and it is only when he rises again that he remembers the man as one of his father’s acquaintance.

“Good morning to you.”

Laurens nods. “And you, sir.”

“I must say your waistcoat possesses the most divine embroidery.” Laurens looks down at the cream waistcoat he wears, a pattern of leaves and birds along the edges and over the pocket flaps. “You must tell me who is your tailor? Please let it be someone in this city.”

Laurens could not have said what he was wearing upon leaving his house this morning, much less the tailor or even date of purchase. He thinks it even possibly something previously of his father’s refit for Laurens.

“I cannot say, sir,” Laurens replies. “It is out of my memory.”

The man pouts in what Laurens feels is a fashion below the man’s obvious age. “You disappoint me. I cannot think but how I must obtain one like it.”

“Then you may try asking my father or someone else bearing a similar cut for I have nothing for you.” The man’s expression shifts, as if confused to whether he should be offended. Laurens fills the gap as he steps to the side up onto the brick, out of the dirt of the street. “I apologize for my brusqueness, but I am upon an errand.”

Then Laurens swerves easily around the man and marches on, not favoring one glance backward. Laurens feels the desire to tear the waistcoat from his chest if it be something which draws such attention to himself. He could perhaps do with more companionship and conversation at present in his state but he has no desire for such obsequious conversation as to the pattern of waistcoats. His mind turns to the war, the fight, a cause he may champion. His mind turns to the writer of the letter in his pocket.

Laurens turns a corner and sees his objective. He speeds up past the sign for a silversmith. Then he grips the door handle of the next shop and pushes it open. He takes off his hat and secures it under his arm as he looks about. Tools and thick cloth lie stacked in one corner of the front counter. The store smells of leather under the usual smell of a burning fire, the room too hot in the summer weather. 

Laurens sees a young boy through the doorway to the back of the shop. He holds a half-finished hat in his hands, a threaded needle moving rhythmically over the band as he looks up to catch Laurens’ eye. Laurens raises his eyebrows back. The youth puts down his work on a table then nods once as he hurries to the left where Laurens cannot see, no doubt to collect the proprietor. 

Behind the counter, Laurens spies a line of finished hats. Bundles of ribbon fill several shelves above the hats, a few which Laurens matches to brims upon the finished products below.

“Good day, sir. How might I assist you?”

Laurens’ eyes shift back to the older man who now stands behind the counter, gray hair on his head and half-moon glasses over his eyes.

“I wish to a commission a hat.”

The man nods. “Of course, sir.” He pulls a measuring tape down from around his neck into his hands. “For yourself, sir?”

“No,” Laurens says, eyeing the tape measure. “For a member of the Continental army.”

“Ah.” Laurens detects a faint hint of disappointment in the man’s tone. “And might I ask your name, sir?”

“John Laurens.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Laurens assumes the new tone of recognition to the man’s voice is not due to the ‘John’ of his name. “And, as to the hat, I hope you are in possession of the man’s measurements?”

Laurens nods. “Of sorts.” Laurens pulls his own hat out from under his arm. “He is near of a size to myself.”

The man’s lips pinch as he takes the hat from Laurens. “I make each hat to a man’s own size.”

“I have had hats made before,” Laurens replies tersely. “I think his size to be half an inch larger than my own.” Laurens’ eyes shift away. “He has a thickness of curl to his hair.” Laurens looks back to the haberdasher once more. “Is this sufficient?”

The man – the store front read ‘Madden’s’ so Laurens assumes that is his name – carefully lines up his measuring tape around the inside of Laurens’ hat brim. He pulls a loose sheet of paper out from under the counter and makes a note with a pencil from behind his ear. He then looks up at Laurens again. He shifts and steps out from behind the counter.

“If I might measure you for comparison, if you say your size is so near?”

Laurens looks at the man’s hand, cracks on his knuckles and callouses over his fingers. Laurens nods once, stiff and jerky. Madden reaches up and wraps the tape around Laurens’ head. Laurens frowns at the feel of the cloth tape and stares at the wood floor. The smooth head of a nail lies near his foot just as in the barracks of Charles Town. Then the measuring tape falls away as Madden walks back behind the counter. Laurens breathes in slowly and looks up once more.

“I shall add half an inch to your size then, but I must remind you, and as you should to the soldier, that it may fit less well than he might have had in the past, right?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure to this?”

“I am. He said he had no time to purchase one on his own and I have nothing if not time.”

The man purses his lips in obvious confusion at Laurens’ angry tone.

“A soldier is in need of a hat be it battle or social calls.”

Madden nods. “I expect right.” 

“So, I can purchase him a hat,” Laurens snaps, his hand straying over the pocket of his coat again. “What else should he want from me, why not a hat?” Laurens breathes out slowly and fists his hands at his sides. Then he pulls them up and lies them flat on the counter again. “What else can a man do for his friend who is engaged in such useful occupation when he himself is not?”

“Aye…”

“I may as well give such a busy, occupied man a hat if he finds himself so opportunely engaged where he is, yes?”

Madden taps his pencil on the paper. “Do you want the hat or no, sir? I should begin your commission if you are in earnest but I cannot stand here all day while you worry over such.”

Laurens frowns and snaps. “Yes, I want the hat.” Laurens cocks his head. “If he should need any adjustments after he receives it, I shall give him your information so he will obtain such from you. Does this appease any of your lost time?”

The man frowns briefly but schools his features. “Yes, Mr. Laurens.” He grips his pencil once more. “Standard black?”

“Black,” Laurens repeats attempting to control his unnecessary rise of emotion. Laurens cannot behave so, he should not, not to a stranger, not here, not alone, not over Hamilton.

“Anything else?”

Laurens thinks of red hair beneath solid black, an accumulation of snow within the brim and caught in his curls. “Yes,” Laurens’ eyes shift to the ribbons. “A brim of black ribbon as well.”

The man nods and writes such down on his paper. He writes ‘Laurens’ at the top of the page. Then he looks up once more. “Do you wish to add to the account of Henry Laurens or to pay with ready money?”

Laurens chooses to ignore the assumption of H. Laurens being a relation; it is, after all, not inaccurate. “I shall pay now. I wish the hat sent directly to the army headquarters.”

Madden nods again. “I should have to charge you for the rider.”

“I am aware.” Laurens gestures to the paper the man writes on. “Might you give me a page and some ink?”

Madden reaches under the counter again and slides a piece of paper, inkpot and quill to Laurens. 

Laurens thinks what else he might write, what words of longing or anger he might say. He has not written Hamilton yet, not properly, not after the letter from June. He cannot think what to say when all his feels toward Hamilton jumbles in his head – questions, accusations, cries, apologies, desperate pleas, angry rejections, screams and cut hands as no better answer than words.

“Sir?”

Laurens tenses at the man’s inquiry. He writes quickly,

_Has executed Hamilton’s commission by arranging for a tailor to make a hat for him._

Then he signs his name at the bottom, pulls some coin from his other pocket and places it beside the unsatisfactory letter.

“Send to Alexander Hamilton by way of General Washington’s office. Thank you.” Then Laurens turns from the counter and exits the shop as if fleeing, though nothing there harms or hunts him expect that which he brought with him.

Back at his father’s house, Laurens sits in the rear parlor, a book open before him which he does not read. He thinks of swords, the walls of Charles Town, of a damp hat on Hamilton’s head, of a quill in Hamilton’s hand, of Hamilton dancing with a faceless woman, the sound of cannon, a fist in his gut. His hand twitches but he does not touch his short hair. He notices a line on the wall where furniture must have scraped. He stares at the mark, like a slice of sword, like the remains of something gone, like the draw of a quill on paper, like everything he is not now or perhaps everything he has become, useless, alone, merely remains of a soldier or lover, something left behind and waiting to be removed from sight and existence.

“John?”

Laurens tilts his head slightly at his father’s tone.

“You have been out?”

“Yes.”

“I have myself been seeing to supply for my journey. Two new trunks as those brought with me from Charles Town I do not think tight enough to withstand the water of a sea voyage.” Laurens hears his father sit nearer the empty fire grate. “My appointment to the Netherlands is welcome, indeed as we require more money than even the French can provide, yet it does require much planning.” H. Laurens sighs and Laurens hears the sound of a newspaper unfolding and the clink of china. “It reminds me of the time spent sending you and Jamie to London so long back.”

Laurens swallows and turns a page of his book so the sound might block out the unwanted memory of his long dead younger brother. 

“And what have you been about?” H. Laurens asks Laurens.

“A goodbye present, I think…”

“What?” H. Laurens asks with more attention and confusion to his tone.

Laurens turns his head to see his father looking at him now. James stands next to his father’s chair, pouring some tea. James does not look at Laurens, but Laurens can tell he listens from his posture.

Laurens shakes his head once then looks back to the line marring the paint on the wall. “A hat. I commissioned a hat.”

 **Day 245**  
Laurens climbs out of the carriage after his father at the docks. A ship called Mercury awaits H. Laurens for his journey to Europe.

“The house is paid through the end of the year,” H. Laurens says to Laurens even though he previously relayed every detail of the house and its accounts to Laurens before they left the house that morning and the night before. “If I should not be returned before this year’s end, the landlord is a Mr. –”

“Father you have told me all this twice over,” Laurens interrupts. “There is little need for a third telling.”

H. Laurens glances back at Laurens as James and two other of the Laurens’ slaves begin pulling trunks down from the roof and rear of the carriage. Laurens counts five large trunks and several smaller bags as well.

“You must be in full awareness of every aspect of such finances. But you have yet to run your own house and you think me tedious in ensuring you do not find yourself at a loss?”

Laurens clasps his hands behind his back. “I do not think you tedious, father. I do, recall, however, what you have told me and the written information to all such details you have also left with Nora and myself at the house.”

H. Laurens purses his lips then turns his head sharply to Shrewsberry, another of his father’s men. “Careful! No slamming on the ground. Straight to the ship!”

Shrewsberry ducks his head. “Yes, sir.”

Laurens’ eyes track the man as a sailor comes to help with lifting the other side of an obviously heavy and unwieldy trunk.

“It is in fact this I must mention and urge you against.”

Laurens’ father turns back to him with a frown. “This?”

“The men you bring with you.”

H. Laurens chuckles once as he looks down at the manifest James holds out before him. “Do you think I should have no servants with me on my journey? I will have a house to manage and I do not think to trust all my needs to foreign hires.”

“They are not servants,” Laurens says.

H. Laurens and James both look up sharply at Laurens, though James dips his head down again just as quickly. 

H. Laurens hands the manifest back to James. “Check with the Captain about our departure time.”

“Yes, sir,” James replies.

Laurens sees James shoot him a warning look before he steps onto the gang plank. H. Laurens stares at Laurens for a long moment. He crosses his arms over his chest and his expression reminds Laurens much as if Laurens should be a child once more, ten years old and thrown from his horse because he fooled.

“John, I understand your desires and your position on this issue. Your black regiment plan has been laudable and you have fought well for it.”

Laurens resists a bitter frown. “Despite its failure.”

“Exactly so. A desire toward emancipation should be in the minds of all men but it does not change our day to day lives. It does mean we turn them out as beggars.”

“You think less of them.”

H. Laurens laughs. “You think too much of the world.”

Laurens clenches his teeth but persists, “How can we cause such change but to make such in our personal lives?”

“The law, Laurens, the law changes the state of such things and you know from you own entreats to the South Carolina Congress how the state of the law is slow to move and requires more thought than even just the situation of our war.”

“I am thinking of the law! The laws of Philadelphia. If they should stay with me –”

“I do not wish to speak on this.”

“You would rather circumvent it?”

“John!” H. Laurens growls then huffs out, “You cannot think to alter the world in an instant!”

Laurens tilts this head up. “Not the world, only America.”

H. Laurens’ lip twitches and Laurens knows he wishes to frown or sneer but also cannot deny the morality behind Laurens’ passion. “These men belong to us, to me, and we support them as much as they labor for us.”

Laurens bites back a harsh retort this time on the nature of balance in such a relationship. “I only ask that you leave these men with me, here in Philadelphia, and you may take those in your paid employ.”

“You cannot expect such now, John. Contracts would be in need, extension of time they have already signed to, expansion of duties no doubt. I cannot do so now.”

“Then hire new men when you arrive. You think to distrust foreign servants, but you are visiting this country to obtain Dutch currency which can only be gained by trust and favor. Why not trust and favor their populace in your own house there?” Laurens gestures to James as he now descends from the ship once more. “Could it not also be something against your favor if you arrive with slaves to a foreign nation? You do not know their opinions and it could speak against our cause.”

H. Laurens properly frowns this time. “I should not be asking their opinion on my house and they are not being asked to support anything more than our fight against the British. Anything else has no bearing upon the issue.”

“So you think.”

“So I know!” H. Laurens snaps. “The Dutch are businessmen and they will attend to the important issues at hand, not anything superfluous about our nation’s culture.”

Laurens stares at his father, feeling bile at the back of his throat. He sees James waiting a step behind H. Laurens. He wears black to match his skin, fine clothing for a man attending a gentleman like Henry Laurens but also clothing he has no choice in, a ship and journey he has no say in taking.

“What of James then?” Laurens tries. James’ eye widen at the mention of his name. “Leave me but James.”

“You have a house of servants to attend you in my absence.”

“But I ask for James.”

H. Laurens sighs. “Enough of this, John! You act as a child.” He turns around quickly and takes the manifest from James, marching over to one of the ship’s Lieutenants speaking with another of their slaves.

“I am well, sir,” James says low to Laurens as he points for a pair of sailors to take the last trunk onto the ship.

“No, you are not,” Laurens hisses back.

“Your father is a good master.”

Laurens shakes his head and stares down at the ground, trying to think of something, anything, any way to save just this one person now, to do one thing, to make one small difference instead of his ceaseless nothing.

“And one day, sir,” James says as he stoops to pick up a bag near Laurens’ feet. “You will be the master.”

Laurens breathes out heavily as James stands up again in front of him. James smiles them turns and follows the last sailor onto the ship. Laurens watches the man walk away, too few days in Philadelphia to give him freedom, too many times when Laurens could have tried harder. Is Laurens as much blinded to his behavior as his father?

“John?”

Laurens turns his head to H. Laurens walking back toward him once more. “Father.”

“We are to depart soon. I should be aboard to ensure all my cargo in place.”

“Of course.” 

H. Laurens clears his throat. “I would not part on ill terms, son. Shake my hand as a man and not a boy.”

Laurens’ lips twitch but he takes the hand his father holds out and shakes it firmly. “I try to be the man you want of me in all things.”

The two men pull their hands back once more, Laurens grasping his tightly behind his back, some form of standing at attention to the major architect of his life. H. Laurens smiles at Laurens, only a slight upturn to his lips but Henry Laurens is not a boisterous man in even the barest sense.

“You are a man I am proud to call son in all you do.”

Laurens breathes in slowly through his nose and manages a nod of thanks to such unusual praise. Then he says, “I wish you a safe journey.”

H. Laurens nods back. “I wish the same of myself. I think it likely I to be seasick.”

Laurens’ lip quirks in amusement at his father’s own self-deprecation. “Keep to the rail above deck.”

H. Laurens laughs aloud this time, a bark of a sound. Then he shakes his head. “I shall certainly do no such thing.” He reaches out and claps Laurens on the shoulder before pulling his hand back and behind him, a mirror to Laurens. “Keep the house as it should be and bear your parole with all good spirits.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I shall write upon my arrival.”

“I shall happily await it.”

H. Laurens blows out another breath. He looks up at the ship then back to Laurens. “Well, I shall be off.” He nods again as he turns toward the ship. “Good luck.”

“And to you, father.” 

Laurens stands on the dock as his father walks up the plank and onto the deck. When the boat departs, Laurens watches it sail away, another solace in his confinement lost to distance and use Laurens cannot share.

Back at the house, Laurens calls Nora into the family parlor. “Nora, with only myself in residence do you think you would be able to manage the requirements of the house alone?”

Nora’s eyes widen. “I believe I could see too much of it, the washing could be sent out if needed, but I must confess myself an inadequate cook.”

“A cook then. You and a cook only, could that be done?”

Nora looks at him oddly then she nods. “Yes, sir, it could.”

“Good.” Laurens picks up the list of staff on his father’s desk. “Then I shall dismiss the rest.”

Nora curtseys and turns toward the door. However, she stops just in the hall and turns back. “Begging your pardon, but I must ask, why deplete your staff so?”

Laurens stares at the wood of the desk, the polish of the door and the twisting shape around the hanging metal handle. “Because I do not trust myself alone.”

After a pause Nora asks, “And I?”

Laurens looks up at her. “I trust you.”

 **Day 250**  
“We still lie in New Jersey, any leave I should request would need little travel.”

“It is not the season where you can beg any leave,” Harrison says as they shuffle through the pile of papers on the circular table in the middle of their stark parlor office. “New Jersey recruits, here.”

Hamilton takes the piece of paper and makes a ‘tutting’ noise. “Not enough.”

“We should need to increase a request of militia,” Humphreys says as he takes the completed stack of papers on New Jersey regiments.

“And you think to get these?” Meade quips as he closes the glass doored cabinet to the right of the hearth, an inkpot in hand.

“The Committee at Congress knows the request of our numbers,” Humphreys says in some dismay. “They must give it.”

“How?” Tilghman says, tapping his hand on the white tile of the fireplace. “We cannot force men to fight.”

“I could perhaps find a way to gain leave by way of an effort toward recruitment?” Hamilton says as Harrison makes a note on one page, totaling the number of men on the list.

Harrison makes a thoughtful face. “Those given commands are also given charge of recruiting their men.”

“I know this,” Hamilton says. “But that is not to say I could not add to any such regiments.”

“New York?” Tilghman asks as he sits down on the further side of the circular table, away from Harrison’s papers. “And a young Miss soon to be a Mrs?”

“Or do you think Philadelphia?” Meade asks. “I have thought myself when I am given leave for the purpose of marriage I might journey south by way of that city and our friend.”

Hamilton glances at Meade. “And should I not gain the same?”

“You cannot travel north and south in one request of leave,” Tilghman retorts as he marks the New Jersey line in his ledger, Humphreys standing beside him.

“Massachusetts.” Harrison hands the stack to Meade who places it before McHenry seated near the window at a folding desk. McHenry sighs but says nothing more as he picks up the top sheet. “And Hamilton, I think it still some time before you be granted leave.”

“And why do you say so?”

“You know why I should say so.” Harrison holds up one paper. “William Livingston? It is the General’s draft.” Harrison looks down at the letter again. “Need of men and appeal to the states.” Harrison sighs. “Of course.” His eyes tick up at the room again. “Who was to make a fair copy?”

“I,” McHenry says, holding up his hand without looking up.

“I think myself as much deserving of a short leave as any man.” Hamilton says as the draft passes between himself and Harrison. “Is my need not enough?” Hamilton asks.

“Your need is pleasure,” Tilghman says. Hamilton looks sharply at Tilghman. Tilghman grins back at him. “Sweet kisses perhaps?”

Meade laughs. “For shame, Tilghman. Would you think the lady unchaste or Hamilton untoward?”

“Or Laurens unappreciative?” Tilghman chuckles. “A kiss from Hamilton might cause such.”

Hamilton clenches his teeth, swallows once then tilts up his chin with a cheeky grin. “None should be unappreciative of my kiss.”

“Ha!” Tilghman cries, nearly making Humphreys fall over with surprise as Harrison hands him a stack from Pennsylvania.

“I am hardly given pay compensation for every hour of my life spent on this war and this office,” Hamilton huffs. Tilghman and McHenry both make sounds of assent while Harrison and Humphreys shoot him scolding looks. Meade only smiles. Hamilton waves a hand toward their office door. “I should request a week leave, how is that then?”

“I still say he should not grant you it,” Harrison comments, head bent over Tilghman’s ledger now.

“Certainly not,” Meade adds.

“Not at all,” Tilghman confirms.

Hamilton huffs, blotting ink upon the page he begins to write on. “And why must you all crush my hopes so?”

“We merely tell the truth,” McHenry says with weariness in his tone. “With the unruly and near broken state of our army and funds, His Excellency cannot afford your absence.”

Hamilton stares at McHenry and wishes he could feel complimented. Instead he feels caged.

When Hamilton writes Eliza, above stairs in the modest farm house, he writes her sweet words, requests, desires to have but one more letter from her in his hands.

_I long to see the workings of my Betsey’s heart, and I promise myself I shall have ample gratification to my fondness in the sweet familiarity of her pen. She will there I hope paint me her feelings without reserve—even in those tender moments of pillowed retirement, when her soul abstracted from every other object, delivers itself up to Love and to me…_

When Hamilton writes to Laurens, the sun set and a candle before him, he writes his frustrations, his attempts to gain leave, Laurens’ lack of reply to Hamilton’s most important news, his sadness at the distance between them.

_That you have as yet made no reply to my letters I think I must call a slight on our friendship, be it my side for content to my words you perhaps find unfavorable but equally so on yours for taking no time to put pen to paper, be your words pleasing or painful, and ease the concern of my heart. For my heart does contain concern for you as much as it contains love and care and if you should doubt that, I cannot claim you as wise a man I thought. I would prefer you near and I would prefer you happy, in both these things I can be the source and the cure if you but write to your dear Hamilton._

Hamilton’s first letter reaches Miss Schuyler. Hamilton’s second letter does not reach Laurens.

 **Day 250**  
Laurens sits half way between his desk and the window, leaned back in the chair. His one shoulder digs painfully into the wood of the chair back but he does not move. On the desk before him are a letter from Congress regarding exchanges and his half-finished reply. He started the reply three times this morning. The crumpled pieces of paper lie near his feet under the desk. Outside a gentle rain falls. It feels fitting.

A rap comes at the cracked open door. Laurens does not bother to answer it. He knows Nora will come in regardless of what he says.

“Sir?” Nora pokes her head in. “Would you be needing anything?”

Laurens does not turn his head. “No.”

“Was the tea not to your liking?”

This time Laurens’ eyes shifts so he can just see the edge of the silver tea tray on the table against the wall. The pot and cups on the tray have not moved since Nora first brought it sometime between breakfast and lunch. Laurens looks back at the window. Droplets of water make lines down the panes of glass. He sees the blurred figures of a horse and carriage braving the growing rainstorm.

“Perhaps you would like a different kind of tea?”

Laurens breathes in slowly and looks at the desk again. He reads a line of the Congressional letter.

_…at present unable to expedite any exchange no matter special circumstances and…_

Laurens shifts his eyes away to his own reply, the date written at the top and only the beginning of ‘my dear sirs,’ underneath that. He cannot think what else to say, what further arguments to make. A part of him wishes to write the British himself or General Lincoln, to insist on his urgent need for exchange, to a return to battle and use and action.

“I am selfish,” Laurens whispers aloud.

“No, sir.”

Laurens tenses slightly having forgotten so quickly Nora still stands in the room with him. “Yes, I am.”

“You cannot think yourself selfish for desiring one you care about to care for you. If he –”

“I am not referring to him,” Laurens retorts harsher than he needs to, harsher than he should, especially with Nora. Laurens sighs and puts a hand over his eyes. “Forgive me, Nora.”

“There is no need.” He hears her step closer, shifting near his side. He pulls his hand down as she crouches and picks up the crumpled paper.

“Nora, you need not…”

“Shush,” She says gently. “If I think of how dreary my days were after the loss of my Lucy, well… and I might wager my loss less in some respects than the loss you face.”

“He is not lost and it is not merely him,” Laurens replies quietly.

“I know.” She stands up again and holds up the discarded paper with an eyebrow raise. Laurens shakes his head no. “What about your tea then?”

“I do not need any tea,” Laurens says, his voice petulant despite himself.

“No?” Nora walks toward the tea service. “I shall brew you more anyway. You do not know what ten minutes might make of you, how comforting a cup could be.”

Laurens shifts in his chair sitting up again. He reaches out and picks up the quill on his desk but puts it down again almost immediately. He hears the clink of the teacups as Nora picks up the tray.

“How did you lose your Lucy?” Laurens asks when he hears her shift the door open wider.

“She died.”

Laurens turns around sharply in his chair but Nora is gone, only an empty doorway. 

Laurens grits his teeth and stands from his chair. He walks over to his bed and the side table. He opens the lid of the box sitting on top. One corner bears a dent but both hinges once again work properly. Laurens picks up the first letter on top of the pile. He runs his fingers over the edges of the letter, traces the rectangular shape. 

Laurens sighs, fiddling with the broken wax seal. “Alexander…”

Laurens glances over his shoulder at the desk, the placating letter and his restarted reply. He turns his head back to the letter in his hands, the letter with Hamilton’s writing on the face. He pulls at a corner of the paper to peek inside as if he did not recall in great detail the words which lie instead. He remembers every word – that one searing paragraph, that one betrayal.

Laurens abruptly shoves the letter back onto the pile in the box and drops the lid shut once more. He turns on his heel, marches back toward his desk and sits in the chair. He keeps his back straight as he picks up his quill and attempts to write his reply to Congress.

“Why should I care for a man who cares so little for me?” Laurens asks himself bitterly.

A drop of water slides down his cheek to hit the page, then a second blurring ink. He is forced to crumple another piece of paper and throw it to the floor.

 **Day 256**  
Lafayette walks in the front door of headquarters as Hamilton opens it, his smile wide and his hand reaching out to shake Hamilton’s.

“Mon ami, it feels too long since I last saw your face.”

“Not overly long, Marquis,” Hamilton says as they shake hands. “I am simply glad to see yourself and hear of the troops safe from any attack.”

“Thank you for your letter,” Lafayette says, squeezing Hamilton’s hand with both of his now. “Though my division could perhaps do with some action I should not seek out such an overlarge force as that.”

“And how is Connecticut?” Hamilton asks as Lafayette hangs up his hat and lingers in the hall.

“Tense but without much direct engagement at present. I think the enemy focus upon the French ships and troops yet to be used.”

Hamilton nods. “No doubt.”

“It cannot remain so, however.” Lafayette clasps his hands behind his back and grins at Hamilton. “And I am of a mind to request some additional aid of His Excellency.”

Hamilton makes a derisive noise. “I know you have used much of your own funds for your detachment, Marquis, but I do not think the army has coffers as ready as your own.”

Lafayette shakes his head. “I speak not of money.”

“If you think to more recruits….”

“Not as such.” Lafayette’s smile shifts so only one corner of his mouth quirks up still. “Merely one man.”

Hamilton begins to suspect Lafayette’s mind. “One?”

“Do you still desire a command?”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows high. Lafayette chuckles in the back of his throat. Then he unwinds his hands and takes Hamilton’s arm, leading Hamilton up the stairs. 

The DeWint house where they quarter at present during their survey of a river redoubt contains only four rooms, a parlor and kitchen on the first floor with two bedrooms on the second. With the aides-de-camp overtaking the parlor as their office, General Washington’s bed chamber doubles as his office, its ceilings low and furniture all of thin wood.

“Your Excellency?” Lafayette asks as he knocks upon the door.

“Come.”

General Washington turns to the two men as they enter. He does not strictly stoop under the room’s height, but he does appear hunched. The house, while not small by most standards, is less grand than past headquarters of the General Washington’s office which its ceilings plainly show. 

The General stands before the white tiled fireplace, empty of flames and wood, with a letter in his hand. He smiles at the sight of Lafayette. “Ah, Marquis. I am pleased to see you able to visit.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. It will be but a short day or two before I must return to my men.”

“Of course.”

“However, I come with a request.”

General Washington’s eyes shift to Hamilton a step behind Lafayette before returning to Lafayette. “I can guess what it may be.”

Lafayette shifts his weight and clasps his hands behind his back as he had below stairs. “Then I shall ask at once. While I am pleased with my command and the officers beneath me, I could do with assistance and a more experienced officer to lead under me. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton has field experience and considerably more knowledge from working closely with yourself. He and I have even fought together. He speaks French. Not least of all to his character, I trust his judgement and command abilities.”

Hamilton presses his lips tight to keep the smile from his face.

“I beg you consider him for a command with my division.”

“I am sensible to all your compliments,” General Washington says, folding up the letter in his hands. “However, my office is in greater need of Colonel Hamilton’s talents than your division, Marquis. If there was another you had in mind I would be glad to hear of him?”

Lafayette’s hands tighten where Hamilton may see behind his back. “I had preferred Hamilton especially because of my personal knowledge of him and our own experiences together.”

“I understand this Marquis and I understand if he has made such a request of you that you feel honor bound to fulfill it.”

“I did not request the Marquis to ask this or anything of you,” Hamilton replies shortly. “Sir.”

General Washington cuts Hamilton a pointed look. “I understand you tire of the duties of this office.”

Hamilton pulls himself up taller. “I do not tire of my service, Your Excellency. I am happy to serve in any capacity be it in your office or on the field.” Hamilton clasps his hand behind his back in a mirror to Lafayette. “My ambitions do not turn me petty or make me less a patriot.”

Hamilton sees Lafayette turn his head slightly toward Hamilton.

“I am pleased to hear so,” General Washington says. Then he turns his head to Lafayette again. “I must decline your request, Marquis, and I am certainly sorry to do so. I understand desiring friendly faces during a new command.”

“Yes, sir,” Lafayette replies, his shoulders lowering. “If I might make one more plea for Hamilton? There is no reason to suppose he could not serve his command with my division for the season of battle then return to your office in the winter months. As example, Colonel Laurens joined the campaign in the south with intention, I believe, of returning to your office when the need in Charles Town was eased.”

“And Colonel Laurens now lies a prisoner of war.” 

Hamilton clenches his jaw and must fist his hands tighter to stop himself reacting in any more insubordinate a manner.

“I know this extreme a case,” General Washington amends, “but, despite the addition of Colonel Humphreys, my office cannot afford the loss of any man. My apologies, Marquis.” He makes no apology to Hamilton.

“I thank you at least for your consideration, Your Excellency.”

General Washington nods, his eyes shifting between them. “And now I must beg your leave. I shall gladly see this evening for dinner, I hope?”

“Indeed, sir,” Lafayette replies.

Hamilton stares at the General as Lafayette turns around. He had not thought Lafayette’s suit to be successful yet he still finds himself bitter at the repetitious refusal. Why should he continue to stay here in the General’s office when the things – the people – he should rather covet are kept far?

When Hamilton and Lafayette descend once more from General Washington’s office they encounter Humphreys on the stairs carrying a large package.

“Ah, Hamilton.” He holds out the box. “A rider has brought something for you.”

“Me?”

Humphreys grins. “A gift from your lady or General Schuyler perhaps?”

“The direction is from Philadelphia,” Lafayette says as he peers at the wrapping. 

Hamilton snatches the box from Humphreys then immediately turns in place to carry it back upstairs. Lafayette follows him, interest as plain on his face as on Hamilton’s. 

Hamilton puts the box down on the small table in the aide-de-camp bedroom. He tears the brown paper and eases off the top of what is clearly a hat box. Inside he indeed finds a black three corner hat and a leaf of paper. The piece of paper bears Laurens’ signature and but one sentence of some attempt at explanation.

Hamilton takes the hat out of the box and hands the note to Lafayette. Lafayette reads the note and whispers something under his breath in French. Hamilton puts the hat on his head. It fits near perfectly for a hat he was not sized for in person. He then takes the hat off again and holds in out in front of the two of them. 

“Did you commission him to make you a hat?” Lafayette asks as Hamilton turns the hat from side to side.

“I did no such thing.” Hamilton turns a confused look toward Lafayette.

“You were in need of a new hat. I recall you saying so.” Lafayette takes the hat from Hamilton’s hands. “Did you say so to Laurens in a letter?”

“If I did mention such that is a far cry from a request to have him commission one!”

Lafayette looks away from the hat to Hamilton again. He frowns and hands the hat back to Hamilton. “It is very fine.”

“It is,” Hamilton whispers. 

Hamilton runs his hand over the brim, a silk, black ribbon against the black felt, the colors barely discernible in difference. It is sturdy, well made, new and not something fashioned from an old hat or discarded pieces. It is finer than a regular soldier should need, perhaps even more so than for a Lieutenant Colonel. It could be something a man might wear to Congress, or at his wedding, or a funeral.

Hamilton clenches his teeth and says, “I think I must solicit leave more forcefully to visit Philadelphia.”

 **Day 271**  
Laurens sits in the rear parlor of his father’s Philadelphia house. The sunlight outside grew dim some half an hour past so Laurens will soon need a candle to finish his letter. He could leave it until the morrow; he had no other plans to busy his day except perhaps to inquire with Lincoln or Congress about the progress of exchanges. Yet, Laurens feels he must write this letter now.

“Nora?” Laurens calls, as he writes. “A candle, could you?” 

A light appears only a few minutes later in his peripheral vision, followed by the gentle tap of the candlestick upon his desk.

“Should you not think of your eyes?” Laurens glances up at Nora. She raises her eyebrows back at him. “You could write more tomorrow.”

Laurens dips his pen in the ink once more. “I could.”

“But?”

“But I would rather finish this letter now.”

“Into the dark?” He sees her eyes flick to his page but away again quickly, taking a step back. “Do you write to your Hamilton?”

“Yes.”

“In anger or love?”

Laurens looks up at Nora again with a frown. “While I value your assistance and prudence, Nora, your curiosity goes too far.”

Nora clasps her hands together at her waist and nods once at him. “Of course, sir.” Then she turns and walks toward the door.

Laurens watches her feet until they reach the hallway. “Nora?” He hears her stop but her skirt has moved out of view. “Thank you.”

Laurens turns back to the letter, nearly the whole page full. It starts as any letter between congenial friends should. Laurens writes of his father’s departure, he writes about the slowness of exchange, he asks after their friends in General Washington’s office, he asks after the General himself. He should have written just this, two paragraphs and then his signature. He did not stop his letter at merely this.

_You write of a woman now engaged to your person and nuptials in your future. If you think I am bound by our friendship to congratulate you in your advantage then I think you clouded by those thoughts of such a wedded state to come that you forget the man to whom you write. I know you as a man of conviction and careful words so I cannot think but you to be in absolute earnest at such a plan. Then as I know the proper modes of decorum and, if you should wish to return us to such a state of acquaintance by your clear action and the news you write me, then I shall tell you ‘congratulations’ and my most felicitous hope for a happy future before you._

_Indeed, I think the fall too far a time for your marriage to occur. Why should you wait for the bliss that all men outwardly proclaim to desire? Why should you not bind your hand and heart to this woman with all speed so you might be the benedict you wish and lose the liberty you supposedly had? Indeed, a happy heart and home and wife before you must be a delight far too tempting to keep yourself in check by anything less than the duties of patriotism. Certainly, you do not find any other cause or person to be an impediment._

_Allow me to drop any metaphor or unlikely event of misunderstanding. If you wish to be married and leave myself as simply a shameful note upon your past then be done with it. Proceed with your marriage in all haste._

The quill drops from Laurens’ hand as it shakes. A blot of ink mars the page at his last word. It is small, not worth rewriting the letter to correct. Indeed, he thinks himself quite incapable of rewriting such words with the tremor of his hand and the painful beat of his heart. His breath comes faster than it should in his chest. He breathes in once slowly and out again to calm the tension in his body. All the shakings of his person lesson as he focuses on his breath, like the pause before he pulls the trigger of his gun, focusing on the object down the barrel.

“Calm,” Laurens whispers.

He flexes his fingers and rubs at his knuckles. His hand aches some. He must have held the pen too tightly in his fist. He stares at the flame of the one candle on his desk. Reaching out he floats his fingers over the small fire. He rocks them back and forth, the flame barely touching each finger as he moves his hand. It makes him think of the fires in Charles Town, the heat coming from the smoking buildings, the sound of the British canon, the screams of citizens and solders as chucks of rock fell, as portions of the city wall crumbled. The sounds remind him of Germantown, canon balls bouncing off the thick walls of that house, the smoke at the door and pain in his shoulder as he fell, Hamilton whispering by his bedside as Laurens awoke again. 

“I should be fighting,” Laurens whispers. “What am I here?”

If he is not a soldier – no Charles Town, no black battalion, no position of aide-de-camp, just a useless man under parole as a prize of the enemy; if he has no lover, instead a wife and child across the ocean he never planned to see again; what has he left now?

Laurens gasps and pulls his hand away from the flame. He turns his hand over and sees angry red on his palm, not quite a burn yet. He presses his thumb into the center and hisses again at the pain. It is nothing compared to the pain of his ankle at Brandywine, or his abused shoulder in battle after battle. It is a wonder he has not found the mark yet after so many wounds.

“But I have no battles now.”

His eyes shift to the letter on the desk. Is it not as much a battle as those of their revolution?

“One I have lost.”

Laurens picks up his quill again, his hand twinging at the use.

_My days here last too long and the hours seem as days themselves spent in such disuse. I have felt myself living body and soul for this fight and the pursuit of our country’s freedom. I dedicated myself as a patriotic citizen fully realized as a soldier who would give his words and hands to the achievement of this goal, be it our Excellency’s office or the field of battle or even the city of my birth. What use is a soldier trapped in inaction? I have heard much of a general exchange and hope myself to be among this but not a word of the swiftness of such. Could I fear it years in the making? How might I live with such shame?_

_Indeed, I lament near every day that I did not find a sweeter release upon the field. What end should a soldier prefer than a glorious fall in battle? What option is left to me now but to wait and what if I cannot do so?_

_I know you should have other objects upon your mind, pleasanter things so you may keep my ravings to a distant corner of your mind and self. That is where I am consigned now regardless and, though it pains me to recall and confess, I remain_

_Your dearest,  
John Laurens._

Laurens puts his quill down in the stand. He blows upon the ink once to dry it enough, then quickly folds the sides of the paper inward, followed by the upper and lower halves. He presses creases into the outer edges then turns to the box with sealing wax, spoon, stamp and penknife. He picks up the penknife and cuts off a chuck of the red sealing way to place in the melting spoon. He does not pick up the spoon, however. He stares at the penknife still in his hand. The blade is not long, as it should mostly be used for sharpening a quill. However, it is sharp for such a task and to slice through hard wax. He curls his finger over the point and needs only the barest pressure to bring a bead of blood up onto the pad of his finger.

“Red,” Laurens says aloud as he stares at the red drop. “Like the wax.”

He could let it drip down upon the letter, wait for it to dry and seal the paper together. He has seen how blood will congeal and grow thick upon a dead man’s chest with time; perhaps not as proper or firm a seal as wax.

He could turn the knife over, trace the fading lines on his hands from the glass and let that blood pour over the paper so Hamilton might see what irrationalities his words drive Laurens to. Laurens could watch the blood coat his skin as a reminder of duty he should be fulfilling, so he will not look pristine and pale while other men serve up their lives for the cause.

“Mr. Laurens?”

“Nora,” Laurens says quietly as the drop of blood slides down the metal from the point of the knife.

Her footsteps barely make a sound on the wood floor. Laurens wonders if her step is practiced or is that a feminine delicacy of walking?

“I think you need to melt your wax now, sir.” Nora’s hand clamps firmly around Laurens’ hand on the penknife. He blinks, still looking at the sharp edge of the blade. Then Nora takes the penknife swiftly from his hand as her other stays tight about his wrist. “You should seal your letter then give your eyes a rest from such a lack of light.”

“Yes,” Laurens whispers as he watches the knife disappear into the pocket of Nora’s skirt.

She holds out the small spoon with the wax inside toward him. “Or should you rather I seal and direct the letter?”

Laurens takes the spoon from her with his left hand. “No.”

Nora nods, his eyes flicking up and down. “Well then. I shall bring wine perhaps? A madeira? It should put you to sleep well enough after your letter is addressed.”

“Yes.”

Nora bobs down into a curtsy then turns quickly toward the door. “I will not be long, but five minutes. You may count such until my return.”

“Nora?”

She turns at the door, her hand on the door frame. She sucks in a sharp breath as she looks at him. A few strands of her hair escape from her cap, stuck to the edge of her face with sweat. Laurens opens his mouth but he cannot think what to say. 

Nora breathes in again then bites the edge of her lip. “I shall fetch the wine.”

As she disappears out into the hall once more, Laurens turns back to the desk and puts his hand free of blood tight over his eyes.

 **Day 275**  
Hamilton sits in the dining room downstairs in their stone house headquarters, the sounds of snores from above stairs and the distant rush of the Hackensack River. His stomach aches for want of more sufficient food, their rations being less and less it seems each passing week. Congress ignores their requests for aid to the extent they need, the soldiers growing bitter as much as the Congress grows frustrated at a lack of progress they desire on the part of the army instead of their circling intelligence. 

“We have more responses from the council of war,” Hamilton says to Meade somewhere behind him.

“Yes, and we are soon to depart and meet with the French as you know.”

“The opinions on how to proceed with the fight are numerous but when we request the basics required for us to do such fighting…”

Hamilton hears Meade close the desk nearer the wall. “You speak of Congress.”

“I speak of all, I think no member of either body, Congress or this army, to be above reproach.”

“Hamilton…”

“General Greene writes of the newer French ships still yet to arrive and precluded any action to be attempted northward this season without them. General Arnold talks of men idle at West Point. His Excellency writes to Rutledge about merely checking the enemy’s progress in lieu of recovering South Carolina.”

“Hamilton, you know the pace of the army and the disadvantage of our own troops, how we must rely on the French more so now who lie in the north.”

“I simply cannot but help disgust with all of it!”

Meade appears beside Hamilton then, a warm cup of something pressed close to Hamilton’s hand. “Enough. Sleep, Ham, you can do no more on any such count tonight.”

He looks up at Meade. “You are too kind to my complaints.

Meade presses Hamilton’s hand with a smile and leaves Hamilton to his candle. Hamilton’s frown only mildly lessens by his friend’s kind attention. 

Hamilton does not, however, rise to bed, his agitation too fierce, his want of those his misses too high. He has no new letter from Eliza but that of a week past and from Laurens the barest writing and the oddity of a hat.

“I would prefer at least one of you,” Hamilton mutters to the candle on the bare wood table. “What of you, John, you who would understand the plight of our army and myself?”

He writes to Laurens again, the only outlet he feels for such woes, 

_The truth is I am an unlucky honest man, that speak my sentiments to all and with emphasis. I say this to you because you know it and will not charge me with vanity. I hate Congress—I hate the army—I hate the world—I hate myself. The whole is a mass of fools and knaves; I could almost except you and Meade. Adieu_

Hamilton counts days in his head; days trapped in this office, days without a meaningful action by their army, days without Eliza’s smile, days without Laurens near at hand, too many days to stand.

 **Day 277**  
Francis Kinloch leaves a visiting card at John Laurens’ house in the early morning while Laurens avails himself of a walk about the city. He returns to see the corner of the card turned up meaning Kinloch dropped off the card himself.

“He said to tell you,” Nora informs him, “that he would be pleased to visit again this evening if today is not too soon and that you could send him a note at Congress if you are agreeable.”

Laurens stares at the card, the curl of the letters in Kinloch’s name. His eyes tick to the empty parlor beside him and the deafening still of the hall before him.

“I shall write something quickly, ask the boy next door –”

“Jimmy,” Nora interrupts.

Laurens only nods once as he turns the card around in his hand. “Ask him to come and we shall give him a penny for it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Laurens sits down in the family parlor and writes a reply on a fresh sheet of paper.

Kinloch,

Thank you for your card. I shall be agreeable to your visiting this evening for dinner or supper, at your convenience.

Your friend,  
John Laurens

When Nora takes the letter, she smiles, clearly pleased at him socializing. “A friend?”

“Yes,” Laurens says, “an old friend.”

Kinloch arrives nearer to nightfall, the sun almost set, and in time for a light supper.

“Laurens, good evening,” Kinloch says as he walks in the door and Nora takes his hat. He shakes Laurens’ hand. “You look well since Charles Town.”

Laurens raises his hand unconsciously toward his hair but pulls it back quickly. “You are kind to say so.”

“I mean as I say.”

Laurens turns toward the formal parlor. “As it just we two, I thought we might sit here.”

Kinloch nods and walks ahead of Laurens into the parlor. Kinloch looks far more fit than Laurens, no apparently loss of weight as Laurens has had. He looks much the same as he did in Charles Town, be it out of uniform. Laurens knows the man is exchanged, likely due to his position in Congress now. His coat is blue, his waistcoat floral and his hair pulled back with more casual attention than he likely would wear at Congress. Laurens tries not to think about the state of his own hair. Kinloch appears older in some respect than when Laurens saw him in Charles Town, an even further cry from their first days in Geneva. Perhaps the war has left marks on Kinloch too.

The two of them sit on the settee together, Nora bringing them some cold ham and baked chestnuts with claret and port to choose from.

“I apologize for calling later than may be custom,” Kinloch says. “I was held up in Congress but felt bound to meet you today after your note.”

“You need not have,” Laurens says mildly. “I shall still be here for possibly years on.”

Kinloch’s lips pinch in a way Laurens remembers from when they were at school. “Do not be drab, Laurens. Parole is not all bad. No one can say you did not do your duty.”

“Capture is a failure of one’s duty, is it not?”

“Certainly not!” Kinloch pops a chestnut into his mouth. “It is an unfortunate symptom of performing one’s duty.”

“You cannot be happy over Charles Town,” Laurens says sharply, picking up his glass of wine. “We fought so hard in the north but we let the south tumble down. Savannah and now in our own Carolina.”

“It was a defeat but it is also a war.”

“It is our home!”

Kinloch shakes his head. “I am not insensitive to this.”

“You seem so.” Laurens takes another drink of his wine. 

“I am not,” Kinloch insists.

Laurens scoffs lightly. “As you say but should these defeats continue on, are you like to return to your loyalist sentiments as you had before? A fair-weather patriot?”

Kinloch grabs up his own glass of port and frowns. “That is unfair and well beneath you to say, Laurens. I recall some years back you expressing a wish I should change my mind in my politics and now you see I have, and have for years in our army. Would you wish to push me back the other way?”

Laurens frowns back at him. “I would think your ideals a weak thing if one man should be able to do so.”

Kinloch sighs, takes a drink of his port and a bite of cold meat. “Lord, Laurens, must you take your situation out on me? I know you are not truly angry at my past politics now. So, do come off this bout of yours.”

Laurens opens his mouth to retort again then closes it. He sighs and rubs one hand over his forehead. “You are right. It was an old quarrel and a moot one now. I apologize.” He drops his hand and looks at Kinloch leaning against the opposite arm of the divan. “My mood is most melancholy in this city.”

Kinloch nods. “I understand, you are perhaps the most fervent patriot I know and stuck here in your gray coat instead of blue and buff must drive you mad.” Kinloch grins. “But one can at least say that you look just as well as a Philadelphia elite as you do a soldier.”

Laurens chuckles once despite himself. “I thank you, though I would prefer the uniform.”

Laurens looks past Kinloch at a painting on the wall his father purchased, hunting dogs and a scene that must have reminded him of South Carolina. Laurens imagines it a battle field instead, just on the edge of gunfire and smoke and blood and then a horse coming out of the fog with a man astride, reaching out his hand to pull Laurens’ up and away and safe. A beautiful man, a solider only in that moment, and no one else to take him away from Laurens with Laurens’ arms wrapped tight around him.

Then Kinloch clicks his tongue bringing Laurens back. “All in good time for your uniform. Until then.” Kinloch reaches across the distance between them and taps the top of Laurens’ glass with one finger. “Enjoy your spirits as you may.”

The pair of them eat through the plate on the table – Kinloch remarking on meat and nuts in a lewd way so Laurens finds himself laughing, then Nora bringing them a bowl of baked apple to complete their meal – until they are left with only their drinks. They talk over their positions in the war, both volunteers and aides-de-camp at various points.

“But not I with Washington,” Kinloch exclaims. “I imagine far too much bowing and ‘your excellencies’ than I could muster and, oh, but can you claim a spot in Congress?”

“Does the South Carolina legislature not count?”

“Oh, but you see, I had that too.” Kinloch grins into his glass and taps Laurens’ crossed leg with his foot. “I shall claim the winning rank in government seats thus far.”

They speak on the problems of the southern campaign, of progress and often inaction of Congress, of Laurens’ father until they stray into the more personal – of Europe and school and women and children.

“I have been hoping to find myself a wife. It is not that I have not had opportunity, but war does get in a man’s way,” Kinloch says, tapping on the fabric of the settee between them.

Laurens thinks war does not get in every man’s way. “Are you desiring to have a brood of children all with your family name to your credit?”

Kinloch gives Laurens a look and slouches back against the seat more. “I could think of other pleasures from a wife, John.”

Laurens huffs once and pours himself some port with his wine gone. “I am sure of it.”

“And your Martha?”

Laurens glances at Kinloch. “Yes?”

“You must miss her.”

Laurens looks away again. He thinks he may have begun to forget her face after so many years apart. Yet she is not the one he misses now.

“Did I tell you I saw her once before I returned to this country?” Laurens’ eyes switch back to Kinloch as he crosses his legs toward Laurens. “Yes, with some mutual Carolina acquaintances, had tea.”

“I see.”

“All very English,” Kinloch continues, “and, my, she is a fine girl and you lucky to get her, John.”

Laurens sighs, tired of this sham. “Enough with your show, Frank.” Laurens is unsure of when they switched to first names. “She may be my wife, but you know my inclinations.”

Kinloch watches Laurens for a moment then sits up straighter and props one elbow on the back of the divan to hold up his head. “I know of you in Europe, John, we have seen each other far less here.”

“Mrs. Laurens is in England. I am here. It is as it should be, and I am glad to have it stay as such.”

“Callous man, John.” Kinloch grins as he reaches for his glass once more. “I should think you a cad.”

Laurens sighs once more and shifts around so his one leg curls up on the couch. Laurens is not the cad, not this time. He thinks of a box upstairs full of letters – one speaking of women and wives. Laurens tips back his glass and finishes the port.

“And what of America?”

Laurens focuses on Kinloch again. “What?”

“What of America?” Kinloch asks, his voice softer. “Who of your inclination is in America, John?”

Laurens turns his head away, looking for the second bottle of wine he hopes Nora left him. “I did not intend to imply that my inclinations were fulfilled in this country as they were not in England.”

“Not as Switzerland?” Kinloch retorts.

Laurens looks at Kinloch sharply – he suddenly, vividly remembers the first time he and Kinloch kissed, a book between them and the sun shinning outside and Kinloch’s hesitant fingers on his chin. Kinloch merely smiles at Laurens, his fingers brushed back now into his hair, loosening his queue. “You mean there is nothing to speak of now?”

“No one,” Laurens lies.

“No one?” Kinloch repeats.

“No.”

Kinloch reaches out and takes Laurens’ empty glass from his hand. Laurens’ eyes follow Kinloch’s hand as he puts the glass down on the small table. He expects to see Kinloch’s hand reach for the carafe of wine, nearer Kinloch but his hand moves between them instead. When Laurens’ looks up, Kinloch’s fingertips touch his chin – just like the first time when he was only twenty and just as surprised as now. 

“Frank,” Laurens says, his voice sounding worn and harsh in the quiet parlor.

Then Kinloch closes the distance between them and kisses Laurens with firm open lips. Laurens seizes up – fear or surprise or want – and Kinloch kisses him more, shifting closer on their seat, capturing Laurens’ lower lips between his as his hand slides up over Laurens’ thigh. Laurens breathes in through his nose, Kinloch tasting of sweet wines, and he wants, he wants –

“Stop,” Laurens says with a sharp breath as he jerks back and pulls Kinloch’s hand off his thigh.

“Jacky,” Kinloch says, trying to curl his fingers around to hold Laurens’ hand.

Laurens keeps his tight grip on Kinloch’s fingers where they are and nothing more intimate. “No one calls me that now.”

“John,” Kinloch switches back, “you may forgive my impropriety in that I know your inclinations, as you have put it, I have shared them.”

“That was years ago.”

“And you know mine well enough,” Kinloch continues, “and we are both alone here.”

John stares at Kinloch still sitting too close, one hand near Laurens’ arm on the back of the divan, his other still caught in Laurens’ hand. “I thought only now of your friendship in your visit here, Kinloch.”

Kinloch grins. “And you have had it.” Kinloch’s free hand brushes against the fabric of Laurens’ coat. “We need not be alone now.”

“I do not want to be with you,” Laurens says firmly.

“But, John –” Kinloch’s leans in closer, as if to capture another kiss, his free hand touching Laurens’ cheek.

Laurens twists around Kinloch and staggers up from the divan, barely missing the table and taking three large steps back until his hand touches the mantel piece. Kinloch stares at him, half slumped forward with both hands on the settee where Laurens just sat.

“John…”

“Enough,” Laurens says, his tone turning pained. “You had my heart once. You do not have it now.”

Kinloch huffs out a breath, he gestures with one hand weakly toward Laurens. “I do not ask for your heart.”

Laurens holds out his arm to indicate the door. “Please leave.”

“John – Laurens, I…” Kinloch shifts around with both his feet on the floor and a hopeful expression on his face. “I only mean that I am… I am lonely.” He holds up both hands in a helpless and forthright gesture. “And I would imagine you are the same. Why keep yourself thus?”

“I said, please leave,” Laurens repeats. “Do not make me throw you out.”

Kinloch stares at Laurens for several seconds. Then he stands from the divan, straightening his coat, and walks toward the door. Laurens sees him stop in the doorway to look at Laurens once more. Laurens does not turn his head but does straighten his stance, hands behind his back.

“Good evening, Laurens, it was… good to see you,” Kinloch says quietly then he turns through the door, a brief shuffle in the hall then the sound of the front door clacking open and sharply closed again.

Laurens’ shoulders sag and he breathes out heavily, not realizing he had held it in. Laurens turns around and puts both hands on the mantel. He leans forward staring at his shoes, at the floor. He misses Hamilton so very desperately with every gulp of air he takes. Laurens turns around, picks up Kinloch’s glass from the table still with some liquid inside and hurls it at the couch. He hears it crack when it hits the wooden edge of the back then bounces off to properly break somewhere near the wall. A small splash of red from the wine marks the cushion where Kinloch had sat.

Footsteps sound down the hall, then Nora appears with a worried, “Sir?”

“Get rid of that divan, Nora,” Laurens says.

“I… the couch?”

“Yes, get rid of it, sell it, throw it away, I don’t care but get rid of it.”

“You want me to remove the couch, sir?”

“I want it gone by tomorrow,” Laurens says sharply. “I do not want to lay eyes on it again.”

Then he marches around Nora and out of the parlor wanting to smash more glasses or pull out his own hair. He scrubs his hand hard over the burning impressions of Kinloch’s fingers on his face as he stomps up the stairs and thinks about ripping apart letters and kisses he would rather have and may never have again and, good God, what if that should be the last kiss he ever has from another man?

 **Day 279**  
Hamilton received a letter from Laurens the day before this, a letter he thinks likely he will have need to burn for its contents to be too revealing. He cannot do but answer it at once. Laurens’ words erred to far into the possibility of extreme actions Hamilton feels bound to caution against such.

“He would not be so rash as to do himself a harm...”

Hamilton chews on his lip, warnings written now before him on the page. Yet, on the whole, Hamilton cannot feel as much sympathy as perhaps he should with so much more of the letter containing accusations toward Hamilton’s conduct all but demanding response.

“I am entitled to the wife I choose as much as she accepted me and you think, with a wife of your own, to cast me down so for it?” Hamilton raves but to himself in his cramped space, barely a servant’s hall where he hides from the rest of General Washington’s office.

“How can you think…” Hamilton stares at Laurens’ letter, the unevenness of his script. 

Hamilton cannot understand how Laurens should distrust him so, how he should think Hamilton inconstant. Hamilton is not the man who lied; that offense lies with Laurens. Hamilton told him the truth, of his intentions and his heart. Hamilton frowns at the wall, the wood digging into his back where he sits on the floor, his travel writing desk heavy on his lap. Hamilton cannot stand the feeling in his chest, remorse and anger, fear and irritation, all tangled so neatly he cannot think how to pull any one free.

“No,” Hamilton says to himself. “No, Laurens, I write as I mean, and you should understand thus.”

Hamilton picks up his quill once more, enough of the letter he writes now spent on exchange and alleviating Laurens’ woes, pandering to Laurens and his malaise. He dips the pen in the ink, pressing hard upon the page.

_In spite of Schuyler’s black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for you; so your impatience to have me married is misplaced; a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now. Let me tell you, that I intend to restore the empire of Hymen and that Cupid is to be his prime Minister. I wish you were at liberty to transgress the bounds of Pennsylvania. I would invite you after the fall to Albany to be witness to the final consummation. My Mistress is a good girl, and already loves you because I have told her you are a clever fellow and my friend; but mind, she loves you a l’americaine not a la françoise._

_Adieu, be happy, and let friendship between us be more than a name_

Hamilton smirks at this own boldness, his cheek. Hamilton signs his name and drops the pen with a flick of his fingers into slot on his writing desk. Let Laurens be unsatisfied with that.

“I can have both,” Hamilton says aloud as he snaps the desk closed over the finished letter. “I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, references! [I have a bunch more Kinloch ones and other things, so if you have any questions about particular things just let me know]
> 
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 19 July 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0768)  
> [To Alexander Hamilton from Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 30 July 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0790)  
> [To Alexander Hamilton from Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, 8 September 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0845)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, [12 September 1780] ](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0851)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens, [16 September 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0860)  
> [Journals of the Continental Congress, 1774-1789](https://archive.org/stream/journalsofcontin17unit#page/598/mode/2up) (Kinloch voting with Congress so he should have been in Philadelphia)  
> [History of Laurens and Kinloch](http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/145777622748/john-laurens-and-francis-kinloch)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler, [2–4 July 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0747)  
> [what does "she loves you a l’americaine not a la françoise" mean?](http://john-laurens.tumblr.com/post/132758298768/what-does-she-loves-you-a-lamericaine-not-a-la) (For those that don't know)  
> [Cherry Bounce](https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/george-washington-carried-this-brandy-based-drink-in-his-canteen)  
> [Dey Mansion](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dey_Mansion)  
> [From George Washington to Nathanael Greene, 19 July 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-02563)  
> [To George Washington from Elias Dayton, 21 July 1780](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-02590)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Marquis de Lafayette, [21 July 1780]](https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0775)  
> [From Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Schuyler, [August 1780]]()  
> [DeWint House pictures](https://loc.gov/pictures/item/ny0684/)  
> [Calendar of the correspondence of George Washington, Sept. 12th](https://archive.org/details/chiefcontinental02washrich/page/1526)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Arnold betrays the American cause and Hamilton and Laurens get closer to returning to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the note at the end of this chapter, there is important news about this series.

**Day 286**  
General Washington and his entourage arrive at Robinson House early in the morning in route to West Point. Hamilton, Harrison, Meade and Tilghman all attend the General with General Knox and Lafayette joined them from their conference with the French in Hartford some days past. Humphreys was left behind at headquarters in New Jersey being the most Junior. Gibbs promised to keep an eye on him. At Robinson house, General Arnold, the commander of West Point, should be in residence to receive them before their planned inspection of the fortifications of West Point across the river. 

General Knox’s aide, Captain Shaw and McHenry were sent ahead to prepare for the group’s arrival. McHenry, only recently in the past weeks, shifted his position from General Washington’s office to that of Lafayette’s. Hamilton thinks Laurens would approve but less appreciate the humor as Hamilton does.

“I regret having skipped a coffee this morning before we rode,” Harrison says as they all dismount at the front of the house.

Tilghman makes an agreeable noise. “I regret not having slept longer this morning.”

“As though you sleep so late often,” Meade retorts.

Hamilton and Harrison both ‘hmm’ in the same tone of derision, though Hamilton thinks his meaning some difference from Hamilton.

“Good morning again.”

Hamilton turns his head up to the door of the long, split level house, obviously consisting of several additions, and sees McHenry standing on the covered porch to the right. Beside him stand Shaw and another man. Hamilton does not see General Arnold.

“McHenry, you look as if you have been allowed coffee,” Tilghman says.

“There is breakfast prepared within,” McHenry says, gesturing to the door behind him.

“You seem to be missing a man,” Knox says, huffing as he adjusts his coat over his ample frame after his dismount.

General Washington raises his eyebrows and the third man steps forward with a salute. “My apologies, Your Excellency. General Arnold was called away to West Point a short time ago. He sends his apologies and should be pleased to return soon and join the party.”

General Washington nods once. “At ease; thank you, Major.” General Washington steps up to the porch, the men making a hole for him. “We should be glad to enjoy breakfast before our inspection.”

Hamilton glances at Tilghman who catches his eye in return. Hamilton mimes tipping a mug of coffee toward his tips. Tilghman grins back.

Inside the house, they hand off their hats to Franks and Shaw. The interior is mostly tan wood, the dining room modestly furnished but with a long enough table to seat the whole party. Hamilton notices space at the table where the three men must have dined prior to their arrival. He hears Tilghman make an appreciative noise as they sit, and he reaches for a jug of coffee.

“Do leave some for your fellow men,” Harrison says.

Tilghman scoffs lightly. “I think there must be a second pitcher.”

Meade takes the jug from Tilghman’s hand and passes it to His Excellency. “It is a wonder the General allows you at meals with such behavior.”

Tilghman raises his eyebrows at Meade. “I only wish to be alert to do my duty in his service.”

“An admirable excuse,” Hamilton replies as he puts some sausage upon his plate.

“Have the coffee you will, Tilghman,” General Washington says as he puts the pitcher back into the middle of the table, his full mug in his hand.

Tilghman smiles genuinely. “Thank you, General.”

“I should expect you the last to sleep this evening.”

Tilghman’s lips twist as the other men all chuckle but he smiles again just as quickly. “Of course, sir.”

Hamilton looks to the foot of the table, General Washington sitting at the head. He turns to Major Franks as he finally sits at the corner of the table beside Meade. “Where might the lady of the house be? I believe Mrs. Arnold is in residence, is she not?”

Franks perks up, his back straight, as if at attention. “Mrs. Arnold is indisposed this morning and I believe it unlikely she to join us.”

“Shame,” Hamilton says. “I have no doubt she would brighten our table.”

“Are you not engaged, Hamilton?” Meade jokes with an eyebrow raise.

Hamilton stabs some eggs on his plate and tilts his chin up at Meade. “Happily.” He then picks up his mug of coffee and points it at Meade. “As are you.”

“But you are possessing of eyes.”

“Gentlemen,” General Washington chides.

Knox laughs once into his coffee. McHenry looks faintly alarmed. Hamilton and Meade sit up straighter and shoot each other equally amused and blaming looks.

“Indeed,” Harrison says, “despite your jests, Mrs. Arnold is indeed a lady of impressive talents and appearance.”

“I have heard of her charms myself,” Lafayette says from the other end of the table. “I had hoped to meet her personally to find the truth of such.”

“We should be back here come evening,” Tilghman replies.

Hamilton nods. “Lucky we.”

Meade laughs quietly as he bites a piece of toast. Hamilton glances toward the hall leading to the private residence above. It seems a fine house, if somewhat lopsided from the portions added. It could fit many children and be a fine enough place to raise a family in a time of peace. He thinks about Betsy descending the stairs, a child holding her hand, still working hard to negotiate such a challenge as stairs. Hamilton smiles to himself at the thought. He hopes their first child will be a boy. 

After breakfast, the party assembles immediately to leave.

“I shall call for the barge,” Harrison says, taking his hat and leaving by the rear door.

“Colonel Hamilton,” General Washington says, “you shall remain behind with Major Franks.”

Hamilton frowns. “Sir?”

“If General Arnold should happen to pass us on the Hudson or we miss him in some other manner before we return, I should prefer you here as my representative.”

“Of course, Your Excellency.”

Meade claps Hamilton on the back. “If you meet Mrs. Arnold, do try not to put her into a swoon with your blue eyes and charming nature.”

Hamilton huffs and thinks Meade in far too pleasant a mood. “I am afraid I cannot change my charms. I must hope her a woman of strong character.”

“Cad,” Tilghman says with all mirth.

“Hamilton, I do not think it proper –” McHenry starts but Tilghman and Meade shush him at once.

“Oh, worry yourself less,” Tilghman says.

Meade pats McHenry’s arm. “Hamilton is safely captured.”

“With dark eyes.”

“And dark hair.”

Meade and Tilghman sigh at the same time like school girls of their first beau. McHenry gapes at them in surprise. 

Hamilton cannot stop a laugh and grins at them, gesturing toward the door. “Get on you all or you should be left behind in shame instead of honor.”

“Honor, he says,” Tilghman jams his hat on his head. “You simply have the most pleasing manner for entertaining General Arnold or Mrs. Arnold I think.”

“Certainly, what with Laurens absent.” Meade flashes Hamilton a wiggle of eyebrows then hurries out the door after Tilghman and McHenry.

Hamilton stands in the doorway for a moment watching the party walk toward the river and dock. He thinks of Laurens, a manner most pleasing to be sure when he should wish. Hamilton has seen him the opposite as well, rash and angry. He cannot help but wonder which he should meet again if he able to gain leave to Philadelphia.

Hamilton spends several hours in Robinson House organizing the notes and information from their conference. General Rochambeau had many ideas for progression of the fight, the retaking of New York City among them. Hamilton should be glad to see them retake the city so long under enemy control and a clear symbol of the British might in America. However, much of him wishes for their force to focus south. The British decided upon this strategy and showed the Continental side weak to defend its southern cities. Do they show too much favoritism to the north? The majority of their active battles of late have occurred in that southern arena.

Hamilton rubs a hand over his forehead. “I should wish it for you,” Hamilton says to the Laurens who is absent. “Return you your home.”

A rider arrives sometime in the early afternoon when Hamilton is half way through his report.

“Sent from some scouts for General Washington.”

Hamilton takes the packet, not just a letter, and sends the rider off. The name addressed is indeed General Washington in a hand Hamilton does not recognize. It would not be from any of the other Generals or their aides. This is not usual, however. They receive all manner of intelligence every day. Hamilton puts the package aside and returns to his writing. Though his hand cramps some from the long report, he finds himself pleased to be allowed a table all his own and quiet in which to work. The aide-de-camp office of General Washington rarely contains one man, unless it be turned dark, and the bustle of riders and visitors allows less peace.

It is four in the afternoon when Hamilton hears the familiar sounds of His Excellency and fellow aides. Hamilton rises from his finished report, just the name of Betsy upon his page in a started letter. He walks to the porch to receive them at the door. Tilghman carries his writing desk before him, scribbling as the General speaks to him. Lafayette converses with McHenry, handing him some papers as well. Harrison and Meade follow with General Knox and Captain Shaw.

“I had thought General Arnold to return with them.”

Hamilton turns his head slightly to Major Franks beside him now who spoke. “Yes.” Hamilton looks at the group once more. “I thought the same.” It is only then that Hamilton realizes Mrs. Arnold has yet to descend stairs that day. He frowns and looks to Franks. “Has anyone been in to see Mrs. Arnold?”

Franks looks at Hamilton in confusion. “Sir?”

“It is near dinner time and she has yet to leave her room, has she not?”

“I believe that so.”

“It is perhaps she is unwell, could someone check?”

Franks nods. “I can send her maid to do so.”

Hamilton turns back to His Excellency’s party as Franks departs. He steps back from the stairs as General Washington approaches. “Welcome back, General. I trust you had a pleasant inspection. I must report General Arnold is not with us.” 

General Washington pauses and looks directly at Hamilton. “He is not?”

“I thought it likely he was to return with you.”

“We did not see him,” Harrison replies.

General Washington’s eyes shift to Harrison then back to Hamilton. He breathes in once then steps toward into the house. “I have no doubt it some matter he will easily explain upon his return.”

The men all shift inside, hats removed, dust shaken from boots. Franks and several servants help to show the men to their various bedrooms for the evening so they may refresh. Hamilton and Harrison follow General Washington to his own bedchamber. Hamilton retrieves the correspondence received from the day as Harrison makes notes on Tilghman’s writing desk.

“The garrison was in good order.”

“Yes,” General Washington says as Hamilton hands him the largest packet.

Harrison sits on one chair beside General Washington’s desk as the General sits in front of the desk. 

“But the fortifications,” Harrison continues, with a disparaging tone.

“We received no other letter,” Hamilton says as the General unfolds the top letter of the large packet. “I completed the report on our meeting.”

“Their neglected state cannot be acceptable,” Harrison says as he makes a late note and folds the writing desk closed. “If General Arnold could explain –”

General Washington stands from his seat so suddenly and violently that his chair skids back to knock into the bedframe. Harrison jumps up, dropping his writing desk with a crash, while Hamilton stumbles backward.

“Your Excellency?” Harrison asks as Hamilton gasps, “Sir?”

General Washington’s face appears pale as he stares at the letter clutched tightly in his hand. He heaves forward again grasping at the other papers on the desk. Hamilton tries to read some of the page, a number of what looks like notes and diagrams on those papers. He sees a small leaf of paper that looks like a citizen pass for travel between occupied areas.

“Sir?” Harrison asks again, still keeping his distance.

General Washington pushes the paper aside, flipping through them quickly until he snatches up the smaller sheet. He makes a gasping noise so unlike him that Harrison steps back suddenly enough to hit the wall with his shoulder.

“General, what is the matter?” Hamilton asks.

General Washington turns his eyes to Hamilton and Hamilton sees, what he never thought possible to see, tears in His Excellency’s eyes. Hamilton’s own eyes widen in shock. He turns quickly in place and hurries to the bedroom door. He throws it open and rushes down the hall, hardly thinking. He passes the closed door of Mrs. Arnold’s room then near slams into the door across the hall as he knocks loud.

“Yes?” Lafayette says even as Hamilton opens the door.

“Come quickly!”

Lafayette puts down the cravat he appeared ready to replace with the one he wears and follows Hamilton into the hall. 

Hamilton grips Lafayette’s arm and pushes Lafayette half ahead of himself. “I do not know the ailment but His Excellency –”

“His Excellency what?”

Hamilton feels half mad as his retrieval of Lafayette. Hamilton could only think of what could be done to calm the General, to make such a horrified look leave his face. When Hamilton opens the door, they see General Washington standing in the center of the room. Harrison still stands beside the desk, the chair moved out of the General’s way.

“Mon General?” Lafayette asks, his voice an obviously measured calm. “Êtes-vous… quite well?”

General Washington turns his head to Lafayette and Hamilton. His voice sounds raw and frighteningly quiet when he finally speaks. “Arnold has betrayed us.”

Harrison’s head turns immediately to the desk in front of him and the papers still lying there. Hamilton feels frozen to the spot – General Arnold’s surprise departure before they arrived, his apparent absence at West Point. Harrison makes a noise of outrage as he picks up the papers on the desk. Hamilton’s brain keeps spinning – General Arnold not with His Excellency when they returned, General Arnold not once arriving at the house while Hamilton remained, all of this when he was meant to meet them. 

General Washington looks back and forth between the men, his head turns briefly to Harrison. General Washington looks at the paper in his hands again. Then his arms sag down and the papers fall into the air. Hamilton kneels at once to catch the papers. He sees a short letter, the words ‘British spy,’ and a pass for one ‘John Anderson’ with General Arnold’s signature in the corner. Hamilton looks up at General Washington from where he crouches.

General Washington stares down at Hamilton, his hands loose and his shoulders slumped. “Whom can we trust now?” he whispers.

Hamilton may have his disagreements with General Washington now, even doubts, but he cannot deny that through all of their war General Washington has been the center, the solid rock which has kept the army moving forward, the man who has been a symbol of the fight for every solider, every civilian, even every member of Congress who thought to tear him down or replace him or deny him needs of the soldiers he commands. General Washington has stood resilient, if still imperfect, through every trial. The expression on His Excellency’s face now is the first time Hamilton has seen the man truly crack.

Hamilton jumps back up to his feet. “We must still have time, he was seen but today.”

“This morning,” Harrison says, all the papers in his hand now. “It appears he met with his man last night.”

“What man?” Lafayette asks standing close to the General now, his hand upon the General’s arm.

“This Anderson,” Harrison says. “He is taken prisoner.”

“And?” Hamilton asks.

“Arnold was supplying information of West Point.” Harrison turns the face of the papers toward Hamilton. “Our fortifications, the garrison.”

“But where is Arnold?” Lafayette insists.

Hamilton looks down at the papers he picked up. “A ship.” He turns the pass around. “A British ship, The Vulture is anchored in the Hudson.”

“He flees to the Vulture,” Lafayette says, his eyes turning to General Washington.

His Excellency stares at Lafayette for a breath then his expression abruptly shifts into the General. “Colonel Harrison, have the prisoner brought to this house at once. Send Gibbs and members of the Life Guard to see to it personally.”

“Sir.” Harrison hurries out of the room, nearly catching his shoulder on the doorframe.

“Hamilton, if he makes for a British ship, we may still have time. Ride to King’s Ferry and attempt to intercept him.” General Washington’s voice twists lower, harsh with the anger in the words evident. “Bring him back here.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Hamilton turns and rushes from the room, barely a glance backward as Lafayette grips the General’s hand. Hamilton takes the stairs in leaps, missing several until he hits the floor of the first level.

“Horses!” he shouts to the nearest servant. “Two, now!”

The man drops the linen in his hand and runs for the back door. Hamilton darts into the parlor and sees McHenry talking to Meade.

“McHenry!” Hamilton shouts. “I need you now.”

McHenry walks toward him. “And what would –”

“General Arnold has turned traitor!”

McHenry freezes like a surprised deer. “He – trait – what?”

Hamilton grabs McHenry’s lapel and pulls him from the room just as Meade realizes Hamilton’s words and jumps up from his seat. Hamilton, however, runs them around to the front door. Hamilton throws McHenry’s hat toward him as he shoves his own on his head. He turns toward the door then looks back once more. A belt with powder, shot and a pistol lie beside a pair of boots. Hamilton takes them too as he pushes McHenry through the front door.

As they exit the house, the servant Hamilton yelled at just appears from the side of the house with two other men leading horses.

“Where are we going?” McHenry asks as he moves to the horse.

“King’s Ferry.”

“That is near ten miles!” McHenry gasps.

“It is where we may intercept his barge making for a British ship and hopefully catch him in time.”

“Hamilton!” 

Hamilton turns to Harrison running out from the house. He reaches Hamilton just as Hamilton stows the pistol and shot into the saddle bag of his horse. Harrison puts out his arm for Hamilton to lean on then all but heaves Hamilton up onto the horse as if Hamilton weighed little at all. 

“Take this,” Harrison gasps, holding up a piece of paper to Hamilton now in seat. “The pass with Arnold’s signature. If any man should doubt or try to stop you on the way.”

“Thank you,” Hamilton says, putting the pass into an inner pocket of his coat.

Harrison nods once. “Good luck.”

Hamilton nods, glances back at McHenry ready to ride, then kicks his horse in the sides. “Ha!”

The two men ride south, galloping as much as they may along the dirt road. Hamilton keeps his eyes toward the Hudson whenever he can see it through the trees. He tries to spy a boat upon the water, ready to force his horse through if anything that looks remotely like General Arnold’s barge or the British Vulture might show itself. The road veers inland for a time and Hamilton feels his pulse race higher without the water in sight, as if this should change General Arnold’s progress somehow. He mind whirls over and over with General Washington’s expression, the damning papers falling out of his hands – ‘betrayal, traitor, betrayal’ like a clanging bell urging him to ride harder and harder.

Their ride takes more than an hour, time Hamilton fears they do not have to waste. Then the trees break into the cleared land near the ferry. Buildings come into view with Continental soldiers at work. Hamilton rides straight through the check point while McHenry stops to inform the soldiers on guard of the intelligence and alarm. The breath of Hamilton’s horse comes in harsh grunts now. Hamilton watches only the river where small boats float tied up. bare looking bare sails toward their side of the river, nearly at the dock now. The he sees the large ship closer to the British controlled side of the river. It flies a British flag.

“No!” Hamilton shouts.

He rides his horse out onto the dock until they reach the guard point. A man attempts to stop Hamilton, moving in front of his horse. Hamilton slows the horse and leaps from the saddle instead, grabbing the bag from his saddle with the pistol. He rushes down the dock, swerving around a man unloading a supply of wheat. Hamilton pulls the pistol from the bag even though he knows it is no use, even though he knows it is too far, too late, the pistol unloaded.

“No, no!” Hamilton shouts as he reaches the end of the dock, his feet sliding on the wet wood. He sees the men on the barge rowing back toward him with the one sail rolled up, Privates only, no General Arnold aboard. “No, he cannot…”

Hamilton stops at the very precipice of the dock, dropping the saddle bag onto the wood. He crouches to pull out the powder bag and starts to pour some into the pistol because this cannot be so. General Arnold cannot have escaped so easily right from their hands.

“Hamilton!” Arms grab Hamilton around his chest, one hand gripping Hamilton’s over the powder bag. “Stop, it is no use!”

“He is escaping!”

“I know. It is too late.”

Hamilton tries to pull himself away from McHenry, to finish loading the pistol so he can fire at the man he cannot even see. “Unhand me!”

“Stop, Hamilton, stop, please,” McHenry says.

Hamilton growls out a frustrated sound then lets the powder bag slip from his fingers down onto the dock. He heaves in a breath and pushes McHenry back off of him. McHenry shifts to the side so Hamilton sees him out of his peripheral vision. The two of them stare down the river to where the Vulture floats, in the neutral water and out of their reach.

“Damn it!” Hamilton shouts as he throws the pistol onto the wood with a clatter, making McHenry jump. 

Hamilton tries to calm himself by breathing in deep and blowing out a long stream of air. His anger remains strong, however, because he had the intelligence, he had the whole stack of papers in his hand for hours without opening it. He did not think to look when they have certainly opened correspondence for General Washington before. This time, when time could have been saved and used to apprehend a traitor of the highest rank, Hamilton chose to wait when he could have read the letter himself, rode hours ago and caught the turncoat before he fled to safety. Hamilton had the damning evidence in his very hand and had no idea.

“God damn it!” Hamilton shouts again.

Back at Robinson house, the sun just having set, Hamilton is unsurprised to find the household and all those within still busy at work.

Tilghman meets Hamilton on the porch, handing off a letter to a rider. “Lieutenant Colonel Gray, sixth Connecticut regiment.”

The man takes the dispatch and hurries quickly around Hamilton.

“Reinforcements?” Hamilton asks as he follows Tilghman inside.

“Yes.”

“Draft finished,” Hamilton hears in Harrison’s voice from down the hall.

“We did not find any further evidence of Arnold’s treachery,” Tilghman says as they walk down the hall to the dining room. “But we cannot be certain an attack on West Point is not imminent.”

“Good God,” Hamilton says under his breath.

In the dining room, Harrison sits at the head of the table, Meade to his right. Both write quickly, Harrison on the drafts and Meade on fair copies. Tilghman skirts around the table to sit beside Meade once more, picking up a quill.

“I have Colonel Wade for you,” Harrison says, sliding a piece of paper down the table toward Tilghman, all the men writing straight over the bare wood with no cloth.

“Did McHenry return?” Hamilton asks, McHenry having ridden back before Hamilton, just as he hears a loud thump from upstairs. He glances up in surprise, hearing another sound like crying.

“Yes, he and Lafayette left for West Point to redeploy the garrison.” Harrison picks up a penknife to sharpen his pencil as he speaks. “We can do nothing for the fortifications now but, if an attack should come tonight, we will at least have men mustered.”

Meade suddenly stands up. “I have Major Low, Massachusetts militia.”

“I, sir!” A young man with blond curls appears from somewhere behind Hamilton to meet Meade half way across the room before turning right back around toward the door.

Hamilton hears another knocking sound and a sudden wail from upstairs. “Where is His Excellency?”

“In conference with General Knox,” Tilghman says, ducking his head as Meade clambers around him, almost knocking Tilghman’s ear in his hurry.

Another cry comes from above with something punctuating it like language but not clear enough for Hamilton to understand. He stares up at the wood slats on the ceiling. “And what is that sound?”

Harrison, Meade and Tilghman all cease their motions. Hamilton turns his head back down to them in concern. Harrison and Meade look at each other then Tilghman looks to Hamilton. “Mrs. Arnold.”

Hamilton climbs the stairs cautiously, following the sounds of distress. He sees the door to Mrs. Arnold’s room cracked open enough for the candle light to make a beam into the darker hall. He hears voices inside.

“Please, if you would attempt to lie down, Mrs. –”

“Away! You shall kill him, I know you will.”

“My lady, if I could take the baby.”

“No, no, you will only kill him because of his father. Ah me, oh my baby, oh baby Edward…”

“Mrs. Arnold, please!”

Hamilton knocks on the door as he eases it open. “Pardon?”

Major Franks appears almost immediately in the doorway, shoving the door open wide. His eyes appear as wild as Mrs. Arnold’s voice sounds. “Thank God.” Hamilton’s stares in alarm. Franks turns and gestures to the woman standing in the middle of the room. “Do you have any way with women because I most certainly do not!”

Mrs. Arnold, as Hamilton assumes she must be, stands in between her bed and dressing table holding a bundle of some kind against her bosom. It takes Hamilton a moment of discernment to realize the bundle is in fact a baby, squirming and fussing. Mrs. Arnold’s startlingly bright bond hair falls half unkept about her face, curls falling around her chin and a fizziness about the whole which seems to match to the expression upon her face. She paces back and forth, stroking her child’s brow and occasionally pulling at her hair, undoubtably the cause of such mess.

“And you?” She says finally noticing Hamilton in the door. “Oh no, another, you! Red? Oh god, red like blood, my baby!” She makes a wailing noise and holds the child tighter to her chest, drawing back against one bedpost. “You cannot blame him, oh please!”

“Mrs. Arnold,” Hamilton says holding up his hands. “I do not intend you or your child any harm.”

“But you do, you do!” She cries, tears on her youthful face. 

Hamilton notices her clothing to be incomplete, no shoes on her feet though fortunately she wears stockings. As she turns about in her pacing, he sees the lacing at the back of her dress to be loose and untied. More of her hair lies fallen down the back of her neck, the pins yet in her hair appear to be slowly losing the fight with her hysteria.

“I cannot, I cannot!” She cries, circling around to the other side of the bed so it lies between them. “Why oh why, God. My poor child!”

“Madam.” Hamilton turns at the second female voice, just noticing now Mrs. Arnold’s maid also in the room. “If you would but give me the babe, I would be sure to protect him.”

“No, oh no….” Mrs. Arnold dips her head to sob into her baby’s fuzz of hair. “Edward, oh… oh cruel a fate, you to die for your father’s ill, oh my sweet.”

“Mrs. Arnold, listen to your maid,” Hamilton says, not knowing the woman’s name. “She may take the child and if you could rest –”

“Ah!” Mrs. Arnold cries, rushing around the bed toward them again so Hamilton and Franks both take startled steps backward. “Stay back, I cannot trust you now!”

“You can!” Hamilton insists, though he thinks this also ridiculous to say as they have not been properly introduced.

Mrs. Arnold pulls one hand away from her child, picks up a pillow from the disheveled bedding and throws it toward the two men. The pillow hits Hamilton directly in the face then slides down him to the floor. Hamilton grunts.

Mrs. Arnold’s rises high. “You will all kill my baby!”

“We will not!” Franks insists. “She keeps saying that,” he hisses to Hamilton then turns back to her. “We don’t give a rot for your baby!”

“Franks,” Hamilton admonishes then turns to Mrs. Arnold again, his voice low and soothing. “Mrs. Arnold, you trust your maid, your…” He looks at the girl.

“Amy,” she supplies.

“Amy,” Hamilton continues, “she will treat your baby well, as I am sure she always has.”

“Amy…” Mrs. Arnold whispers. “My baby… Amy, you know him a sweet babe.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Amy steps slow and cautious toward Mrs. Arnold. “And he is sure to be tired.”

As if on cue, the baby makes a whining noise. Mrs. Arnold looks down at the child, her eyes less fierce and soothing noises coming from her mouth now. Amy steps close and holds out her hands. Mrs. Arnold whispers something to the child and looks up at Amy again.

“He is good, he won’t be killed.”

“No,” Amy says as she swiftly takes the baby out of Mrs. Arnold’s arm. “No, ma’am.” Then she turns in place and marches quickly from the room, casting a frightened look at Hamilton and Franks.

Mrs. Arnold’s arms flop down uselessly at her sides and she sobs loudly, shaking her head. “Oh no no, oh and if I should – oh no.” Her body seems to slump forward so Hamilton fears she might fall.

Hamilton steps up close and Mrs. Arnold immediately collapses into his arms, clutching up at his shoulders. He feels her sobs against his chest, a quiet whimper interspersed with her tears. Hamilton hears Franks exit the room behind him. A sudden panic seizes Hamilton to be left alone with the lady but he is at a loss of what to do not but stand there and hold her up. Then he hears familiar footsteps down the hall.

He turns his head before the General speaks. “Your Excellency?”

General Washington stands in the doorway, a distressed and displeased look upon his face. “How fares she?”

Mrs. Arnold pulls her head up from Hamilton’s chest to look at General Washington. Her crying increases anew but the sound is more forlorn than the frantic nature of earlier. “Oh no, it is he! He shall surely…” Her body seems to completely give up so Hamilton must grasp her arms tightly to keep her from falling to the floor.

“Put her to her bed,” General Washington says as Franks comes in from behind the General to aid Hamilton. “She should need rest.”

“She has been at this for hours,” Franks mutters.

“No, no…” Mrs. Arnold moans as the two of them all but carry her to her bed.

“Sirs?” Amy’s voice comes from behind General Washington, her head bowed. “I might assist her.”

“Please,” Franks says with feeling. “Just quiet her!”

Mrs. Arnold’s sobs grow louder momentarily, and Franks quickly moves away in place of Amy. Hamilton back up, allowing the little maid to stand by her mistress’ bedside. Mrs. Arnold keeps crying but the sound lessens, no thrashing or words. It seems she has slipped into a melancholy now, frantic and hysterical though it is, Hamilton has no doubt the source.

Hamilton follows General Washington out into the hall, the door closed behind them. “Might we ascertain General Arnold told his wife of his betrayal before his departure?”

“Indeed.”

“Then he is even more guilty for causing an innocent woman such distress.”

“General Washington, Your Excellency!”

General Washington and Hamilton both move down the hall to the top of the stairs at the cry from below. They look down to see Meade standing at the foot of the stairs with what appears to be a letter in his hand.

“Your Excellency,” Meade says, “a letter for you, from the prisoner.”

The General walks briskly down the stairs, Hamilton a step behind him. He takes the letter from Meade, opening it carefully and reading it at once before them. Hamilton and Meade stand still and silent, watching His Excellency’s face for any changes upon what truths may lie within the letter. His countenance remains blank and unreadable. Hamilton wishes very much to snatch the letter from his hands to read himself.

“It appears,” General Washington finally says as he lowers his hands. “The man in our possession is no ordinary spy.”

“Sir?” Meade asks in confusion.

“Find out where he is, where the guard ushering him here may be. I want him before us as fast as possible.”

Meade blinks once then nods. “As you say, General.” Then Meade marches away.

Hamilton looks at the General’s face, glances down at the letter in his hand then back up again. “And who might this spy be?” Hamilton asks, his tone bordering on sarcastic. “Clinton himself?”

General Washington looks at Hamilton. “Near.”

“What?”

General Washington turns then and climbs the stairs once more. “Inform me when he arrives.”

Hamilton watches the General until he reaches the second landing and turns out of sight. Hamilton puts a hand on the bannister and feels himself weak. He rather wants to collapse into a bed as Mrs. Arnold, feeling weary with shock and disappointment. He cannot believe all such disaster and hysteria have happened in but one day.

An hour after night fall, General Washington stands on the porch, one hand upon his sword hilt and the other at his side. Harrison and Hamilton flank him just as five guards flank the man standing in the grass before them. He wears common clothing, a brown coat and worn breeches. His dark hair bears no powder and merely lies tied in a simple queue. His face, however, appears noble and well brought up with soft, round features and a roman nose. He holds his chin up high, his back straight, but he does not have the haughty look Hamilton has seen upon many an enemy officer at an exchange. Indeed, his demeanor looks entirely respectful in the calm expression upon his face, despite his hands manacled in front of his person.

“Mr. John Anderson?” General Washington asks, though they all know this not to be his true name.

“Your Excellency,” The man replies, “I am Major John André, Adjutant General to the British Army.”

 **Day 288**  
The entirety of the following days are spent in interrogation of Major André. His account is taken down in full involving his meeting with Arnold on what he had supposed to be neutral ground, though was in fact the American side. André relates his discussion with Arnold about information to West Point, Arnold’s appointment there a long-standing plan to allow British forces to take it after Arnold weakened defenses and provided needed information. Arnold’s recompence for his betrayal was to be a commission in the British forces and simple money; Hamilton cannot imagine a truth more base.

André conducts himself with great decorum and complete candor throughout their discussions. He speaks with General Washington himself, every aide-de-camp present, in the large dining room at Robinson House. 

“And your intention was to meet as officers in war?” Harrison asks.

“Subterfuge was never my intention,” André explains. “I had no desire to remove my uniform at any point in my meetings with Arnold. It was quite against my wishes that such occurred.”

“And yet it did occur, sir,” Hamilton says, André’s brown eyes turning toward him. “If it were against your wishes, why should you allow such?”

“At King’s Ferry the boatmen refused our request to row us back toward the Vulture.” André keeps Hamilton’s eye contact as he answers causing an involuntary shiver down Hamilton’s back. “General Arnold insisted I leave by another way.”

“In disguise?”

André presses his lips and nods his head. “Such was the case and, though I always wish to conduct myself as an officer of His Majesty’s service and not in any manner disrespectful or shameful, I admit I was given no alternative choice being under the American lines but to don civilian clothing as I was pressed to do.”

“You could have refused.”

“And chosen capture instead?”

Hamilton’s lips twist in amusement and he shifts in his seat. “You are captured now.”

André laughs once, a pleasing sound, and nods. “As I am, but any soldier regardless of rank must also know his first duty is to his commander.” He nods once at General Washington who inclines his head slightly back. André looks to Hamilton once more. “I wonder at what your choice should have been were you in my stead?”

“I think it a difficult choice and I think you also under an assumed name for this meeting.”

André nods again. “Anderson.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps this seems the actions of a spy, but I came in uniform and as myself. If documents were drawn up in the case of failure or for safety of what should have been a neutral meeting, then I cannot speak for this.”

André smiles and Hamilton finds himself smiling back. “Do you place this blame upon Arnold then?”

André breathes in slowly. “I think General Arnold a man who prefers to plan for all eventualities and I can only speak upon my own conduct. I had no intention of actions of that of a spy and consider myself only His Majesty’s officer.”

“Tell us then of what plans were to be had upon taking West Point,” Harrison asks making André turn his head away toward the other man.

André sits up straight in his chair, his eyes bright, never talking down to Hamilton or any other aide and certainly not General Washington. Hamilton cannot help but find himself charmed. Indeed, he finds André as handsome a man as Laurens, tall and strong as a member of their Life Guard but as genteel in manner and polite in speech as the highest-ranking officer. Under any other circumstances, he should wish to know André better as a friend.

“We cannot treat him as a common spy,” Hamilton argues once André is removed to his confinement. “He is an officer.”

“An officer in disguise,” Tilghman counters. “He bears no uniform.”

“We know his rank,” Hamilton says. “You have heard all the honesty of his activities yourself.”

“And do you call those not the actions of spying?” Harrison says.

“Indeed,” Meade cuts in, “but he said himself of his expectation of neutral territory as any of we may have done in an attempt to receive needed intelligence.”

“We are not talking of suppositions,” Harrison says. “We must base his fate upon the facts.”

“Fate?” Hamilton hisses.

“Gentlemen,” General Washington interrupts. “I will call for a court martial to decide this upon our return to headquarters. We have learned all that is needed, and your arguments now do little to change anything we know.”

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton says. “You have spoken to him yourself. Do you think his manner of a spy?”

“No,” General Washington replies. “Only his actions.”

“That was not his intention!”

Tilghman sighs. “We know such, Hamilton, and perhaps there is a chance this may speak to his favor.”

“His honesty and manner speak to his favor,” Hamilton insists, pacing around the long table.

“That does not make him less a spy!” Harrison snaps, smacking the table.

The aides all turn to Harrison in some surprise at his outburst. “Harrison,” General Washington chides.

Harrison turns away, putting a hand to his eyes. He paces toward the wall, placing his hands upon his hips. Tilghman casts a concerned look to Hamilton but neither man speaks.

“I suggest you gentlemen keep your council until the court martial proceedings,” General Washington says firmly. “I know we all find this situation unpleasant and far beyond that which we should prefer. As members of my office I will certainly listen to your opinion and council on this affair, but the outcome will be decided by the proceedings.” General Washington leaves then toward the front of the house, Gibbs waiting. 

Hamilton wishes Laurens were here with his passion and drive. Surely, he would find some hopeful words about honor and pride in the face of deceit, how André was the man of honor and Arnold the man of shame, how they cannot force the punishment on André alone when Arnold deserves it more. Laurens would understand and feel as Hamilton does. Yet, perhaps every man present feels the same. 

Hamilton looks to Harrison, still staring at the wall with his hands fisted at his sides. Tilghman and Meade stand near one another but look in different directions. None of the other aides try to speak; there is nothing to say.

 **Day 293**  
“I hope you use that compass well or we should be lost and never found among these woods,” Laurens says as he hikes near behind Ternant.

Ternant flashes a smile over his shoulder, holding up the small wood box enclosing the compass. “I am an engineer.”

“Does this equal you a navigator then as well?”

Ternant scoffs, turning them left toward some rocky out cropping. “It means I work with such tools with ease.”

“Compass?”

“Yes.”

Laurens pushes some errant hair, wet with sweat more from the effort of their hike than any heat now in the cool of autumn, back over his ear. “And what engineering of your experience involves the finding of north through the woods?”

Ternant turns to Laurens walking beside him now. “Do you wish to become lost, is that your aim?”

“No.” Laurens looks down at their feet, careful of the rocks and incline where they walk.

“Then do not distract me.”

Laurens looks up at Ternant again. “Are you hoping to distract me from the fact that you are indeed lost?”

“You wished for caverns and I follow the guide I am given.” Ternant gestures up toward where the hills grow rockier ahead of them, not so much a mountain but certainly more reminiscent of the Appalachian Mountains than mere woods. “What more do you ask?”

“A path.”

Ternant chuckles, taking off his brown hat and waving it before his face once. He smiles at Laurens again. “Should we mark our journey to make such a path?”

“I am no surveyor.”

“You might endeavor to become so.” Laurens looks over at Ternant incredulously. Ternant gestures at the woods then taps one of the brown covered buttons on Laurens’ suit. “You match well enough now.”

Laurens smiles this time. “You attempt to bring me cheer.”

“Indeed, you should need some and I speak in truth.” Ternant hops over a fallen tree, the trunk not so thick as to prevent Laurens merely stepping over it. “If we are to remain on parole for some time then other pursuit may need undertaking to avoid stagnation or madness of the mind.”

“I do not wish for other pursuits. It is but the fight I wish to return to.”

Ternant gives Laurens a chastising look, his hand brushing over low handing leaves. “Laurens, you cannot have interest only in the war. What should you do when it is over? You went to school, did you not?”

“The law.”

“Good, then perhaps we should return to the city and read a book.”

Laurens smiles once more. “You brought no book with you?”

“What? And risk my books in the damp and dirt of nature?”

Laurens chuckles, grinning. “It might add to the quality.”

Ternant feigns a gasp. “Do you call my books base or ragged?”

“I call them on the topic of engineering.” 

“You do me a discredit.” A leaf falls close between them and lands in Laurens’ hat. Ternant slows his pace, reaches out and plucks the yellow leaf free. He smiles at the leaf, the topmost point close to his nose. “Indeed, I have a few books on natural history as it is a favored interest of mine.” He smiles and looks past the leaf to Laurens again. “Why should you think I suggested such a hike?”

Laurens purses his lips, increasing their pace once more. “You tired of the smell of the city?”

“A near thing in priority, of course.”

The pair of them continue up the hill through the trees. They now follow a rough sort of path likely made by deer. The trees are not as thick here as so many rocks and stone cover the ground. They follow the edge of a tall rise of stone for some minutes. Ternant finds a spot of the stone that appears ascendable, so they climb over the stone by hand and foot. The bag Laurens carries with their canteen and some bread hits the stones several times, the noise breaking the still of the forest.

“Do not drop it,” Ternant calls back. “We should not wish to chase it back down.”

“We should need to climb back down eventually.”

“Should we?”

Laurens feels immensely glad at his choosing to wear gaters on their hike or his is certain he would have scrapes all along his shins. Their climb only takes ten minutes before they reach the top of this section of half mountain, half wood. Ternant takes Laurens’ hand to help him up onto the precipice and they both step nearer the edge of the cliff.

Laurens and Ternant stand side by side, looking over the tops of the trees back down the hill and forest. Many of the trees have changed color for the season, reds and yellows paired with green that falls predominantly with pine trees. Laurens has grown used to the different foliage of the north what with so long spent in the northern campaign before Charles Town. Yet he still misses the low branches and wide oak trees of the south, tall tufts of palm and cypress instead of pine. His woods smell of the water and swamp while these woods smell of winter and sap.

Laurens sighs then says, “Alexander is engaged to be married.”

He sees Ternant turns his head toward Laurens in his peripheral vision. “When?”

“Fall he said, he could be married now.”

After a pause Ternant says, “He should certainly tell you if he were.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. He wrote so in June.”

“June?” Ternant makes an odd noise. “Why should you not have told me sooner?”

Laurens shakes his head, looking down at the rocks under their feet, jagged steps below those with moss covering some. “I do not know.” He looks up at Ternant again. “Perhaps I hoped he should write and…” Laurens sighs again. “I do not know.”

Ternant presses his lips tight and nods once. Laurens swallows and looks out at the trees again, leaves red and orange on the trees matching the perfect memory of Hamilton’s hair in his head. 

Ternant suddenly grips Laurens’ hand. Laurens turns his head toward Ternant, to tell him not to worry, to thank him for his concern. Then Laurens sucks in a sharp breath, tears threatening his eyes, and Ternant pulls Laurens forward into his arms. Laurens wraps his arms around Ternant’s back, hugging him as tightly as Ternant holds him. He feels tears on his cheeks, damp spots forming on Ternant’s cravat and collar. Ternant’s hand grips the back of Laurens’ head over his short hair. Laurens breathes in shakily again and squeezes Ternant tighter. Laurens did not realize how much be needed someone’s arms around him, someone he cares for and trusts.

When they pull apart once more, Ternant rubs both his thumbs over Laurens’ cheeks, wiping the tears away. Ternant smiles, one hand still over Laurens’ cheek. “He should know how lucky he is to have you.”

Laurens puts his hand over Ternant’s but cannot work his voice to reply.

Laurens and Ternant climb on from their cliff back into the woods, Ternant speaking on species of bird until Laurens talks about herons around the swamps of South Carolina. They find a dark cavern with what Ternant calls stalagmites, the sound of bats somewhere inside and a pool of water. Laurens sketches the cavern, the strange hanging stone, and Ternant’s smiling face.

Any moment Laurens’ face falls and his mind wanders to darker paths, he will find Ternant gripping his hand once more saying, “Think only of here and now, John, not there or then.”

Laurens walks the wood and climbs the stone with Ternant. He turns his head up toward the sun until they start their journey back toward Philadelphia. He stops thinking about his sorrows, his loss, and he thinks of the silence of the trees, the earth beneath his feet and the beauty of that and those which may still bring smiles to his face.

 **Day 292**  
The court martial in regards to the matter of Major John André is held at headquarters in New Jersey. General Greene sits as president of the inquiry, Baron von Steuben and Lafayette also among the many presiding officers. The letters of the day in question and those following are read, André’s own confessions, Arnold’s excuses sent to General Washington from the Vulture and all the particulars of their subterfuge together. 

An attempt is made to confirm the use of a flag of truce in the activities between André and Arnold, possibly saving André the fate of spy. However, André, not knowing of the debate when brought forward, protests he to be unknowing of any flag of truce or else he should never have removed his uniform to civilian wear. Every man upon the board obviously wishes to give André leniency due to the regard all feel for him, what with his address and respect and obvious behavior as an upstanding officer of his army. Hamilton does not see how any could think otherwise of a man such as André, more honorable by half than the traitor he transacted with.

Hamilton sits in the back of the courtroom in a long row of aides-de-camp, Walker and North among them once more on Hamilton’s left, with Harrison, Meade, Tilghman to his right. McHenry sits with Gimat, beyond North and Walker, and finally Du Ponceau on the very end. Hamilton sees each man with the same concern upon his face having now heard the entirety of the proceedings. Hamilton knows they must feel as he, that the wrong man – despite his own guilt – is to suffer the shameful consequences for this treachery.

John Lawrence, the same judge advocate from Lee’s trial, stands before the court, André also stood at attention now. 

Lawrence reports, “The Board having considered the letter from his Excellency General Washington respecting Major André, Adjutant General to the British army, the confession of Major André…”

Hamilton sits up straighter hoping for a result he cannot expect. They all know André shall die for his crimes but the matter at hand is how.

“I feel so at sea,” Walker whispers almost to himself as Lawrence reads the charges. “I find I should not wish his death.”

“I think you are not alone in this,” Hamilton whispers back. 

“If only we had Arnold,” Harrison says to Hamilton, his voice low. “It is he whom we should see in such a court.”

“We may yet,” Hamilton whispers back.

Harrison turns his head to Hamilton. “Should we?”

None speak again as Lawrence finishes the pronouncement.

“Major André, Adjutant General to the British army, ought to be considered as a Spy from the enemy,” Lawrence says with finality, “and that agreeable to the law and usage of nations, it is their opinion, he ought to suffer death.”

A breath seems to escape from the whole of the room. André does not flinch or swoon. He merely stands at attention; he most certainly knew from the moment of his capture that death awaited him. Hamilton cannot feel any calm certainty, however, for while a soldier may be offered the firing squad for his execution, a spy is forced to hang.

 **Day 294**  
Hamilton knocks on the door to the small stone house once as he unlocks the bolt then moves quickly inside. The guard within closes the door behind Hamilton then stands stiffly back at his post next to the door.

“Major André.”

“Colonel Hamilton.” André stands from his seat at a small circular table and inclines his head politely to Hamilton. Then he gestures to the only other chair in the small room beside the table. “Will you sit?”

Hamilton nods and sits at the table, putting his hat down on top away from the writing materials provided to André. “I was told you wished to speak to someone from the General’s staff. I am here.”

“Thank you.” André sits across from Hamilton, though the table is small enough Hamilton could easily touch André’s arm. “I have a letter for his Excellency.” André shifts some papers on the table and holds it out for Hamilton.

Hamilton takes the sealed letter, General Washington’s name and full title upon the face. “Might I ask to its contents?” Hamilton asks boldly.

André smiles in a grim way. “In regards to my execution.”

Hamilton tips up his chin to stop the catch in his throat. “I can inform you as easily now if the question is to his commuting your sentence; that is not possible.”

André nods. “It is not. I am resigned to my fate. It is but the manner which disturbs me and if it can be altered that is my fervent wish.”

Hamilton nods but chooses to say nothing on this score. He has attempted himself to obtain the firing squad for André, a man certainly deserving of a soldier’s death. Yet he has had no success in this.

“I shall deliver the letter directly into his hands.”

“Thank you.”

Hamilton shifts on the chair but does not stand. It appears André had no other aim in calling Hamilton here, yet Hamilton would prefer not to remove himself yet. André makes for an engage companion, charming, polite, as well as accomplished, if what Hamilton has heard of him is to be believed. Hamilton wonders what they could talk about if André were allowed more time? 

André, however, must think along a similar line of wanted companionship because he says, “you have very singular eyes, Lieutenant Colonel. They are such a startling blue; I imagine they could make for an impressive portrait.”

Hamilton purses his lips in an effort to control the smile which threatens his face. He dips his head briefly and feels a tremor run through him, best kept hidden from the majority of men. 

“You are kind to say so.” Hamilton tilts his head, glances at the papers before André, just noticing now scribbles in the margins of the drafts which appear to be pictures. “Are you an artist yourself?”

André chuckles. “I have not painted in many years.” He shifts some of the papers around so Hamilton may see several fully formed works of art, pencil and ink though they may be. “I suppose I may blame your revolution for this.”

Hamilton reaches out and turns a few of the pages around so he may see them better. “A loss indeed.”

“A man need not only be a soldier.”

Hamilton chuckles, glancing up at André once. His eyes lie with the art before Hamilton. Hamilton looks down at the drawings once more. He sees a sketch of the exterior of the stone house they sit in and another more detailed drawing of André’s boots.

Hamilton glances up. “Boots?”

André chuckles. “I have few furnishings, as you see.”

“Did you find the hangings of your bed too difficult?”

André raises his eyebrows, but he smiles at Hamilton’s cheek. “Perhaps I shall try to draw such tonight, it is a pleasanter thought than what lies before me.”

Hamilton sits up straight once more, the sober truth of André’s last evening of life being this very one. “Your servant has been sent for to bring your uniform. No matter the mode of your end, you shall be dressed as the officer you are.”

André nods, his fingers shifting over his drawings. Then he looks up and meets Hamilton’s eye. “I am grateful for this courtesy.”

“You deserve such.”

André keeps Hamilton’s gaze then nods once, a smile on his features again. Hamilton thinks André’s smile as handsome as any gentleman’s could be. Hamilton clears his throat and abruptly stands up from the table.

“I thank you for your conversation and wish you a peaceful evening.” Hamilton picks up the letter from the table and puts it into his pocket. “I shall see this letter safely to His Excellency’s hand.”

André moves to stand up for farewell but Hamilton waves him off. André sits up straighter instead. “I thank you, Colonel.”

André begins to shift some of the papers on the table around into some semblance of order once more. As he does so, Hamilton sees a drawing which had been covered by the others which he had not seen. It is a nearly full-length portrait of a man seated beside a small circular table, his legs crossed, his one hand upon the table and the other perched on the back of the chair. The man in the drawing sits sideways in the chair, as if addressing or listening to someone else across the room. Hamilton touches the edge of the page so André cannot hide it away.

“A self-portrait?” Hamilton asks, looking up at André once more.

André picks up the piece, gazing at it for a breath then he hands it up to Hamilton. “Yes.”

Hamilton looks at the face on the page, the simple lines easily matching the real person before Hamilton. It is a rough drawing, done in ink, with the needed lines for a specific person if less detail to things like texture or buttons. It reminds Hamilton of the sketches he found of himself, his hands, his face drawn with care; it reminds him of the day Laurens drew Hamilton asleep in Laurens’ arms.

“Are you well, sir?”

Hamilton looks up at André again and he realizes the somberness must show upon his face. “Yes, only your drawing reminds me of a dear friend who draws as you do. He drew me much the same as this once.”

“I should have liked to have met your friend,” André says quietly.

Hamilton holds out the drawing for André, but he waves a hand. “You may keep it. I should have no use for it soon.”

The following day, a crowd assembles to witness the execution of Major John André. Almost all of the Generals and field offers are present. General Washington and his staff are to stay inside his headquarters with the shutters closed. Hamilton does not stay inside. He keeps to the back of the crowd what with this slight infraction of protocol. Lafayette stands nearer the front, the Baron on the opposite side with Walker, North and Du Ponceau behind him. 

Hamilton watches as André walks steadily toward the gallows, now wearing his bright red uniform. He stops some paces still from the gallows as though he has finally seen them. 

He takes a step back and turns to the officer beside him. “I am reconciled to my death, but I detest the mode.” Then he takes a deep breath and continues his walk.

The crowd remains absolutely silent as André steps up onto the wagon placed beneath the scaffold. His hands are loosely bound before André pulls a white scarf from his own coat pocket. He takes off his hat, handing it to his teary servant, then carefully unwinds his cravat and hands it away too. He looks out at the crowd, catching Hamilton’s eye but briefly in his gaze about the assembled men. 

André says, “It will be but a momentary pang.”

Then he wraps the cloth about his eyes and ties it somewhat awkwardly with his bound hands at the back of his head. He then reaches up for the noose hanging just in front of him and loops it around his own neck. Hamilton clenches his teeth tightly and does nothing to append the tears forming in his eyes. André adjusts the noose tight about his neck and lets his arms fall down in front of him.

The Colonel which accompanied him says, “If you wish to speak now, you may.”

André raises his arms and pushes the cloth up from his eyes. “I pray you to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man.”

André pulls the handkerchief back down, drops his arms then the wagon is pulled out from beneath him. Hamilton flinches at the sudden crack. He can be pleased in the smallest sense that the result was quick. 

As he stands among the silent crowd, Hamilton wishes Laurens stood beside him to hold his hand.

 **Day 307**  
“Good morning.” Ternant smiles wide at the door and gestures out to the street. “Put on your hat, sir, did I not say in my letter that I would force you out?”

Laurens frowns. “My house serves well enough for any discussions you should wish.”

“’Discussions,’ he says.” Ternant sighs. “Nora!” He shouts over Laurens’ shoulder. “Find this man his hat!” He shifts back and points at Laurens. “I only ask you to leave this house and accompany me. A coffee house, what do you say to that? You could do well with some chocolate, maybe?”

Laurens sighs. “Ternant, if it is chocolate you wish –”

“I wish you to walk but two steps and into the sun. I was able to coax you out with promises of mountains and trees. Is the city not enough for your sensibilities? Charles Town is a city as much as Philadelphia.”

“Perhaps I should prefer some privacy with you.” Ternant gives Laurens a wicked grin. Laurens cannot help a tug at his lips. “You understand my meaning.”

“I understand an outing. I shall keep it short.”

“Sir.” Laurens looks down at Nora beside him holding his second-best hat. “I would recommend the words of the gentleman.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows and Ternant laughs in triumph. “See? Now come.” 

Laurens puts his hat upon his head and follows Ternant out into the morning air, the coolness of autumn and the noise of a day at work. They talk very little upon their walk, Ternant remarking on the occasional passerby, until they reach the coffee house in question. It is not large as one might expect from Philadelphia, but it is also not upon Market Street or Chestnut. They find a small table near one wall with seats just for two. Several other tables host clusters of men, one table thick with smoke above it and animated conversation. Laurens hears snippets of words referring to trade difficulties and French goods.

“What do you think?” Ternant asks.

“I have been to a coffee house,” Laurens says as the girl arrives to ask after what they should drink. “It is not a first. Coffee,” he tells the girl.

“I did not mean this room. Chocolate,” Ternant says to her then to Laurens once more. “I meant a more metaphorical question as to you being out of doors.”

“Did you?”

Ternant makes a ‘hmm’ noise and glances out at the other tables in the room, much plain wood and some old stains upon the floor. “What do you think of now?”

“I think of a general exchange.”

Ternant chuckles and looks back to Laurens. “Is that all?”

Laurens sighs, his mood still sour. “I think of Benedict Arnold and how I should wish to have been there to possibly thwart his treason or at the very least give assistance to the men I care for most when they must have been torn so with shock and sorrow.”

“Has he written to you of the occasion?” Ternant asks, not needing the use of names.

“No,” Laurens says, his fingers picking at a crack in the table. “But I suspect all such correspondence relating to Arnold and his British counterpart have been intercepted. No doubt much of the letters leaving the General’s office find difficulty in reaching their intended points.”

“I see.” Laurens looks up at Ternant’s disbelieving tone. Ternant frowns and waves a hand. “No, I trust your judgement. I cannot imagine what a flurry those days must have been. Indeed, we were all shocked enough at a distance from the affair, what to be in Arnold’s very house and learn of such betrayal?”

“Yes.” Laurens thinks of Hamilton in the General’s office, at the anger he may have felt face to face with the spy André, of how helpless he may have been to stop any of the traitor’s deeds. Laurens wishes he might ride to New York and drag Arnold back to the American lines himself to stand judgement. It makes him grit his teeth with the very thought of such treason and his own inability to do anything of worth here.

“Laurens?” Laurens glances at Ternant again. “I did not intend to cause you distress, think of better things just now instead, might you?”

“And what might those be?” Laurens replies tersely. “Parole? My father captured?” His father wrote a week back of the capture of his ship and himself a prisoner in the Tower of London. “Those dearest to me taken away?”

“You need not be obtuse about such,” Ternant retorts, some of Laurens’ mood clearly passed to him.

“We sit in a coffee house,” Laurens snaps back. “An idea of your making.”

“Indeed, it was.” Ternant grins once more as at just that moment the girl returns with a tray carrying cups and pitchers. She places a cup before each of them, pouring Ternant his chocolate first and then pouring coffee for Laurens.

“Milk and sugar, sir?” she asks.

“Milk.”

She pours some into his cup, still balancing the tray in her other hand. Then she puts the milk back onto the tray, hands him a spoon and bobs a curtsey to them, not a piece upon the tray even shaking in danger.

“There now,” Ternant says as he takes a sip of his chocolate. “Might we think and speak of pleasanter things? We may be under parole, but it is not forever. Your father may be captured but he is treated well. And your sir,” Ternant gives Laurens a raise of his eyebrows, “may be spoken for in the matrimonial sense, but does he not also write you of affection?”

Laurens looks down at his cup, the coffee a light brown color reflecting the edge of his cheek upon the surface. “He does.”

“Then perhaps that is reason for hope?”

“Is it so?” Laurens looks up. “Is it not more pandering to my woes in the hope of an easier termination later?”

“You are cynical.”

“I am realistic.”

“Enough then.” Ternant waves a have. “I have a better topic, portraiture.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “Are we to discuss art?”

“It is one of the finer things in life.” Ternant sips his chocolate again, getting a smear upon his lip which he wipes away with his cuff. “But I speak in the more personal sense.”

Laurens narrows his eyebrows. “Do you plan to sit for your own portrait?”

Ternant points at Laurens with a grin. “Clever boy, but not perfectly upon the mark. In point of fact, I have already sat for my portrait.”

“Oh?”

Ternant reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small oval portrait of a size with one of Laurens’ coat buttons, perhaps but half a centimeter more. Ternant is the obvious subject, the artist’s skill good enough to produce a true likeness. His hair is powdered and he wears his uniform.

“You wore your uniform?” Laurens looks up at Ternant.

Ternant nods. “I thought it appropriate, it being a portrait made of myself in America and the revolution was my purpose for arriving on these shores.”

Laurens picks the portrait up off the table. The artist’s detail is exquisite, the folds of Ternant’s uniform, the collar bending forward and even the color of Ternant’s eyes. “Is this Peale?” Laurens asks.

Ternant grins again. “You have a sharp eye. It is indeed.”

“I knew he painted some portraits of the army when I was away.”

“And now he is in Philadelphia.” Ternant scoops his portrait out of Laurens’ hands and back into his pocket. 

Noise from the opposite side of the room disappears for a fraction of a second before one man starts to snap ‘no, no sir’ while another tries to cry over him, ‘I told you of this!’ The girl scurries in their direction with her pitcher in hand.

“I think you should consider one for yourself,” Ternant says under the noise.

Laurens’ eyes shift back to Ternant. “Myself?”

“And why not?”

Laurens scoffs. “My hair for one point.”

Ternant shakes his head. “I am certain Nora could devise a way to tie it all back if only for the portrait. It should not be of the back of your head. And if you powdered it, any flaw you fear there should be well hidden.”

“I do not think I in a mood for art.”

“What?”

“How should I look in such a portrait with…” Lauren huffs – his frustration, his anger, his sorrow, his dwindling hopes. “With myself as I am now.”

Ternant takes another sip of his chocolate. “It is a portrait, not a sorceresses’ crystal ball.” Laurens raises his eyebrows. Ternant taps Laurens’ coffee cup in encouragement. “Get your portrait done. Would you not want the ages to know the beauty of your face?”

Laurens tires to smile but finds himself not up to the task, despite Ternant’s jests. He picks up his cup and takes a sip of his coffee, bitter and less like the coffee of Charles Town he should prefer. “And to whom should I give such a portrait?”

“Why should you need to give it to anyone? You might keep it for yourself.”

“If that be the case then I should sit for a large portrait not a miniature.”

Ternant sighs. “Then find someone to give your miniature to.”

Laurens frowns more, taking a gulp of his coffee. “I have no such person now.”

Ternant’s inquisitive and knowing eyes turn toward Laurens, the edge of his cup balanced against his lip. “Do you not?”

 **Day 315**  
Hamilton marches down the stairs of Bloomsburg Manor, their headquarters once more. He drops his letter to Betsy – yearnings and dreams and hopes within – on the table near the front door for the afternoon courier. He has yet to write to Laurens as he should, no good news to share. In his other hand, he carries a letter from the Marquis de Lafayette. Hamilton raps sharply on the General’s office door until he hears the General’s voice say, ‘enter.’ Hamilton opens the door and shuts it quickly again behind him. General Washington sits at the round table in the office, stacks of letters around him.

“Hamilton?” He asks.

Hamilton holds up the letter from Lafayette. “The Staten Island attack?”

General Washington puts his quill down in its stand. “And what of it? I am engaged at present on the matter of General Greene and his appointment to lead the southern campaign which I find more pressing.”

“And yet an attack under Lafayette’s detachment is also planned for Staten Island. I believe he wrote to you of a command in my favor and yet I have heard nothing from yourself upon this.”

General Washington stands up from his table. “If a command were to be given to you for such an event then I should have informed you; I have not. I am sure you must understand that I cannot spare you for the field at present.”

“Harrison and Meade are soon to be away on leave, I understand, sir, but a command such as this may be a brief one and if the Marquis needs assistance, he should not request such without warrant.”

“Perhaps, but an aide-de-camp of my office is much in need and not easily spared.”

Hamilton clenches his teeth. “Harrison and Meade may be spared for personal leave and not I on a matter of the army?”

His Excellency raises his eyebrows high. “Do you think them undeserving of their leave or the reasons to which they go?”

“This is not my reasoning and I believe Your Excellency aware of this. I ask but for command and action I deserve and should serve well in.”

“You serve well in this office.”

“Yes,” Hamilton hisses. “I have served well and faithfully. Did I not do so during our time of crisis and betrayal?” General Washington’s mouth pinches but Hamilton presses on. “Did I not do all I was able to stop General Arnold as soon as the truth was known?”

“Do not mention his name,” General Washington snaps.

“Do you punish me for his actions?” Hamilton snaps back.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” General Washington says, his voice low but with a clear threat. “Do not overstep nor discredit either of us; you know me not be vindictive and do not treat your position as a punishment. This office is an honor and a duty most men unsuited for, and yet you remain here.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton concedes. “I do remain here when others as skilled as I are granted leave for family or battle, yet you keep me here steadily despite my requests. I have not resigned, I have not behaved inappropriately, I have served! And yet you continue to deny me which I cannot understand; what good a command such as with Lafayette could give me, my own name given rise.”

“The war is not a tool to make your name.”

“Nor is it a tool to trap a man in your service!”

General Washington sighs and grits his teeth. “You try my patience with your circular requests.”

“It is only so because you continue them,” Hamilton retorts. 

General Washington steps forward around the one chair, anger in his expression now. “How long would you play this game, Hamilton? How many times? You must understand how crucial you are to this office, how needed you are right here, and how a risk of you on a battle field in direct combat is one I will not take!”

Hamilton stares at General Washington, the two of them breathing harder now, only a yard between them. Hamilton feels so confused, angry and destabilized. Their army was betrayed, the wrong man hanged, his friends disappearing to farther parts around him, his beautiful wife-to-be far away, his darling Jack trapped under parole, and this man – his General – acting as if a father fearful of a son. 

Hamilton finds in this moment now he hates the General, hates his never-ending attempts at balanced politics, at playing the part, at his hesitancy, at his control over his own person, over his men, over Hamilton. Hamilton hates how much of his own success and benefits now he must owe to this man, to his position, when all Hamilton should want is to make his name his own, not to have it always tied to Washington’s. He hates that the General thinks he should need to protect Hamilton when Hamilton never asked him for such.

“All men risk in this war; they risk their lives aligning themselves with what is called a rebellion,” Hamilton says, his words slow. “I am not, nor do I ask to be, above this.”

General Washington’s expression appears to ease and his weight shifts back, away from Hamilton. “You are my aide-de-camp,” he replies, which is not an answer.

Hamilton pulls his hands behind his back and stands straight. “You shall not grant me this command in Lafayette’s mission?”

“I cannot spare you.” General Washington waves a dismissive hand. “And, at present, there is even doubt it should take place.”

“I see.”

“Yes.” General Washington shifts back toward the round table and his papers. “I shall dismiss your outburst once more, Hamilton, but I should prefer not to hear such from you again.” He sits down at the table, but Hamilton does not bow out.

“Then an alternative request, General.”

General Washington’s eyes tick up, clear suspicion on his face. “Yes?”

“Leave, I know I shall have such to my wedding in December, but what of Philadelphia?”

“Philadelphia?”

“Colonel Laurens. I should wish to see – I must see – Laurens.”

 **Day 319**  
In late October, Laurens sits in the front parlor now turned dining room with Harrison and Meade. The two men stopped in Philadelphia, on their way toward parts further south, for army business and to visit needed friends.

“It should come as no surprise that money remains scarce for the army’s use,” Meade declares as he works with a knife at the pork on his plate. “We were told of some cloth from the West Indies that should make its way to us, however, and I do hope for truth in this.”

“Moth eaten and unusable no doubt,” Laurens counters darkly.

Meade chuckles as Harrison shakes his head. “I must remain optimistic.”

“Then share your optimism toward my exchange,” Laurens says, spearing a cooked tomato with his fork. “I should need it.”

“Our magic is not so great,” Meade says.

“It shall come in time,” Harrison consoles Laurens, his tone still much the head of their office. “And if I should wish for such powers, I would use them instead to send General Greene south.”

“Not the Baron?” Meade asks with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Harrison shakes his head and a wave of his head. “Both, either. Better management and advancement in that quarter against Cornwallis is needed.”

“But no doubt the southern representatives to our Congress have some hesitation?” Laurens snaps his fingers. “What of Kings Mountain? I heard of the loyalist forces defeated?”

“Indeed,” Harrison concurs, reaching for his glass. “There is a hope this victory can be pushed into a wider defeat of the British in the south. So much of the battles there now are skirmishes and guerilla fighting in the swamps.”

Laurens smiles at this. “The British do not understand the terrain of the Carolinas. As much as I would prefer all-out battle, this is just as apt a strategy.”

“But it is more chipping away at a stronghold, not a method for total victory.”

“And it is further south we travel,” Meade quips. “Poor us.”

“Only Virginia.”

“Not the true south?” Meade says with a grin.

Harrison raises his eyebrows. “Bite your tongue, sir.”

Laurens laughs once. “I have missed such banter.” He looks down into his wine glass. “This house has been a quiet prison.”

Silence falls briefly as Laurens senses some wordless conversation between the other two men near him.

“A prison you say?” Meade says then, knocking his elbow onto the table so Laurens looks up. Meade points his finger upward. “I see two floors above me still and a grand room around us, and you call this prison?”

“A prison need not be vile to be such,” Laurens retorts dourly.

Meade raises his eyebrows. “You think this your gilded cage then?”

“He is on parole,” Harrison remarks, biting a piece of bread.

Meade shoots Harrison an annoyed and reproachful look. Then he turns back to Laurens. “I think it only a cage if you should treat it so and at least give us the grace of not considering it so now as Harrison and myself are also inside it.” Meade gestures to the room. “I do not feel trapped.”

Laurens opens his mouth to reply but closes it again with only a sigh. He does not wish to counter Meade and finds himself lacking the will to do so. He has missed Meade and Harrison, all the family, as much as the war itself, missed such purpose, near as much as he has missed Hamilton.

“Are you both quite finished eating?” Meade asks as Harrison holds a fork with piece of potato on the end to his mouth. Harrison raises his eyebrows as Meade grins. “I believe when we first arrived, Laurens mentioned a ballroom and I must put eyes upon it myself.”

“Did I mention such?” Laurens says as Meade takes Laurens’ wine glass from his hand.

“Why?” Harrison retorts yet still putting his fork down.

“Come, come.” Meade stands from the table, gripping Laurens’ hand. “Be our accommodating host.”

Laurens stands up despite his mood. “As you please, Meade.”

“Grand!” He grips Harrison’s shoulder and pulls slightly so Harrison mutters, ‘yes, yes’ and stands as well. “We who are such close family deserve to see all the house.”

“Meade, you over step your bounds!” Harrison hisses.

“Did I not say we to be family?” Meade retorts as they walk out into the hall.

Laurens finds himself chuckling as he follows after. “Indeed, you both are but I draw the line at my bed chamber.”

Harrison huffs. “As do I!”

“Oh, come now, does the General not often entertain in his bedchamber?” Meade says with a look tossed over his shoulder at the two of them.

“When he possesses but two rooms of another’s house!” Harrison snaps. “I doubt he should regularly bring guests into such at Mount Vernon, and having been there myself, I know he does not!”

“You become entirely too vexed at this issue, Harrison,” Meade says with a chastising tone so Harrison scoffs in consternation. Meade turns his eyes to Laurens, as if for a shared look of disbelief at Harrison’s fuss. Laurens only chuckles again. “Now,” Meade continues with a gesture at the stairs. “Lead on, sir.”

Laurens nods at them both. “Follow me. I must confess it, however, to be in a closed-up state, as it has not seen use since my stay here.”

“Meaning we to be the first?” Meade says with a gasp. “Perfect!”

“And what use do you think we shall give to it?” Harrison asks.

Laurens leads the pair up the stairs and straight into the ballroom on the second floor, only a slight extra nudge needed for the ill-used door. The curtains remain closed and dust sheets over the sideboards and chairs against each wall. Laurens crosses the room to the nearest window diagonal from the door and pulls them open allowing light from the setting sun into the room.

“Ah,” Meade says with a skip into the center of the floor.

Harrison walks around the edges of the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he looks at the paintings on the wall. Laurens realizes he has not given the room a proper viewing himself. His father held no balls or larger dinners during their shared residence and why ever else should Laurens enter this room? The paintings upon the walls are portraits and dance scenes, the latter appearing to be of European courts. Laurens’ lip quirks up at the irony of the subject in his house of parole. 

“Now if only we but had a fiddler and we might dance a jig,” Meade says, tapping his foot upon the floor. “It is such an excellent space for a dance. Why did you not organize one for our arrival, Laurens?”

“I…” Laurens gapes at Meade.

“Meade,” Harrison chastises again.

“No, I think it should have been a fine thing,” Meade says, marching over to Laurens and grabbing his hand, shifting Laurens into place across from himself. “See now, you here and I here. We bow now.”

“Are you asking me to dance, Meade?” Laurens says incredulously.

“Have you lost your talent?” Meade asks through his bow. “I have seen you dance.”

“With ladies,” Laurens clarifies – truly thinking of Hamilton in Meade’s place.

“Now, now,” Meade says trotting forward and then circling around Laurens. “I think I as well as able to be elegant and refined in all my moves and looks.”

“Your form is lacking,” Harrison says.

Meade and Laurens both turn their heads to him. Harrison only shakes his back. Meade chuckles, back into first position of their not-actual-dance. Meade gestures to the floor in a half circle around himself toward Laurens. Laurens only smiles then steps to the side out of line of the ‘dance.’

Meade sighs. “Ah well, I am snubbed then.”

“If we should have music and candle light then perhaps you would persuade me,” Laurens mollifies Meade’s attempts at humor and cheer. He cannot say aloud that even in such a situation as this, merriment and mockery, Laurens would rather never dance with another man than the only one he has.

“It is a fine room, I shall grant you,” Harrison says, “if overcome with dust.”

“Yes, Old Secretary,” Meade says, walking toward Harrison. “Laurens did mention it’s lack of use. Remember we are the first.”

“And lucky we be to enjoy that dust then.”

Meade scoffs and walks to one of the covered chairs. He peeks under the dust cloth and makes an appreciative noise as he stands up straight again. He strolls along the wall, glancing out of the window where Laurens opened the curtains then curling around again toward Laurens still in the middle of the room.

“Might we adjourn then?” Harrison says. “I think Laurens’ meal included some sweets at its end, did it not?”

“It did,” Laurens confirms.

“Might we tempt you back down stairs then, Meade?” Harrison asks.

“Well, since neither of you should favor me with a dance.” Meade looks at Harrison in question.

Harrison shakes his head. “My ankles are not as well suited to dancing as in past years.”

Meade taps his toe upon the floor and chuckles once. “Indeed.” Meade twists his ankle up in the air then taps his toe down again. He gives Laurens a look. “You have no such excuse.”

Laurens’ lip quirks once more. “I do not, Kidder.”

Meade pouts. “Then I must blame my own lack of whiles. Should I need petticoats and a lower neck line?”

Harrison makes an offended noise and crosses his arms. 

Laurens smiles for true this time and steps toward Meade. He reaches down and takes Meade hand, squeezing it once. “Your whiles are perfect as they are, Meade, and you do lift my spirits as you intend.”

Meade squeezes Laurens’ hand back with a genuine smile, his voice now quiet. “I cannot bear to see your expression so morose. If I could free you of this for but a night I would do so.”

“And you have.”

“I should wish you back in His Excellency’s office where you belong.”

Laurens looks down as they release their hands. “As do I.”

“I leave now to see to my own marriage.” Laurens looks up at Meade with a small smile – the word causing a twist to his gut. “And I do not know myself to be returning after or no.”

“You intend to leave the service?”

Meade’s eyes shift away. “If I shall be a married man once more with a new wife to care for…” He sighs and looks back to Laurens. “I know not.”

“Then I should miss you all the more when you leave this house.”

Meade reaches out and grips Laurens’ upper arm. “This does not mean you unable to see me. Any house of mine would readily accept a visitor such as you.”

“Yet I should be unable to venture there at present,” Laurens reminds him.

Meade’s expression falls briefly then his smile shoots up again. “Enough of this talk. I said to lift your spirits, not to spoil them anew.” He quirks his eyebrows and purses his lips. “Are you certain to refuse me my dance? Perhaps a country jig instead. We might spin about until dizziness causes a fall and will that not be amusement enough?”

Laurens chuckles lightly. “Only until we hit the floor.”

“Oh now, a battle experienced solider such as yourself should have no trouble with a little fall,” Meade says as he gently turns the two of them around once. “But perhaps it would have been better if I had brought our wine with us to ferry such raucous dancing onward.”

“Meade, I will not see you play the drunkard,” Harrison says from behind them. Laurens and Meade turn to Harrison once more. Harrison gestures to the door. “Come now, the dinner table has pleasantries enough, yes?”

“Yes,” Laurens and Meade say together.

The two men turn and follow Harrison from the room, Laurens closing the door behind them. They walk back down the stairs and toward the front parlor, Meade talking of dances in the General’s service and Harrison retorting about dinners as the more frequent. Laurens sits at table with them once more, the three of them reminding him well enough of happy days in winter quarters or encampments. Laurens forces himself to focus on the cheer they bring and not the melancholy he maintains. Their visit may be brief, but it is welcome.

Harrison and Meade leave two days following, both with appointments at Congress and time enough for another dinner with Laurens, before they travel south for Harrison’s family obligations and Meade’s marriage joy. Laurens remains alone once more in his house.

“Good evening, Mr. Laurens.” Laurens turns his head to Nora walking in the door with a tray holding a bottle of port and a glass. She puts the tray down and pours some of the liquor into the glass. “I hope the visit with your army men was pleasant?”

“Army men?” Laurens asks as she hands him the glass.

“Should I call them friends?”

“They are. We call each other family.”

Nora smiles. “A good family then to visit you.”

“Come now, Nora.” Laurens stands up and puts his glass on the tray. He reaches over to the empty tumblers on the edge of the sideboard and pours a more generous portion of the port into the incorrect glass. He puts the decanter down, picks up both glasses of port and hands the proper one to Nora. “We both know –”

“Sir, I –” she tries to refuse the port, but Laurens shoves it into her hands. 

“We both know,” Laurens continues. “Whom most I should prefer to see…” Laurens sighs as he turns back toward his chair. “And most wish not to see.”

He thumps into his chair, turning his head to Nora who still stands by the sideboard. “I am a sea of ruin inside me, torn to bits by an expand of nothing, of uselessness, of failure and of him.” Laurens takes a big gulp of the port. “Him whom I decry for not arriving here sooner and whom I just as fervently wish far away. I cannot…” Laurens holds the glass against his forehead. “I cannot abide such indecision in myself.” He pulls the glass away again, his eyes back on Nora. “I am a man of action, not idle fretting!”

“And what should you wish to choose then?” Nora twists the port glass around in her fingers. “I cannot help but note much of what you wish to change is beyond your control.”

“Yes.”

“Then what should you choose?”

“I ask you that then,” Laurens says, sipping the port once more, his eyes turning toward the fire in the grate before him. “What can I choose?”

“To be happy,” Nora replies, her voice low and quiet. “You may choose to be happy.”

Laurens stares at the burning fire, the soft crackling noise. He thinks her words wise. He also thinks them folly. How should he choose to be happy with what he does not want? Laurens puts down his glass half finished and does not pick it up once more.

 **Day 329**  
After much arguing and demanding, his heart somewhere near his throat, Hamilton finally rides from General Washington’s headquarters toward Philadelphia and John Laurens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some important news. This is the last story I will be posting in this series. From here on out I will be writing and forming the series into a proper novel with a view toward publication. The stories that are posted here will remain for a bit longer but will eventually be taken down as the novel progresses. I want to thank you all for your support and love throughout the near two years of writing this. I am committed to finishing it and hope you will all still be interested in reading Hamilton and Laurens' story when it is a book. 
> 
> To keep up on the progress of the books, as well as interesting extras, you can follow me on my author [facebook](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites) and the website for the book. You will also see 'The War,' will have a brand new novel name: [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/)
> 
> Thank you all again, your support and reading have meant more than I can say.


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